


What's Past is Present

by SpitfireRose



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Basically Prompto gets magic'd to when he was a child, Canon-Typical Violence, Caretaker Ignis, Caretaking, Child Prompto Argentum, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Game Spoilers, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Ignis is Ignis, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, MT Prompto Argentum, Memory Loss, Nightmares, No one is spared from this Feels Trip, Panic Attacks, Poor Prompto Argentum, Self-Worth Issues, Time Magic, Touch-Starved, de-aged fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-05-24 13:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 62,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14955248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpitfireRose/pseuds/SpitfireRose
Summary: A run-in with powerful time magic has Prompto transform back into a child with no memories of his friends intact.It soon becomes evident the boy holds a tragic, abusive past that none of the three would have ever knew.All they can do is hope to gain his trust until hopefully, hopefully the curse runs its course.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To the self-indulgent concept of what if child!Prompto saw the guys and thought they were Scientists/Guards/Lucian based off their physical traits, such as Iggy's glasses and Gladio's muscles? The answer lies in this fic.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“Sooo, what kinda weapon you think it’ll be?” Prompto walks with a skip in his step, a stark comparison to best friend dragging his feet as they trudge along the forest path of thick brush and clusters of trees. Up ahead, their master tracker holds the map with Ignis looking back to check in on them every so often -- not like Prompto’s noticed or been keeping track or anything.

“As long as the Royal Tomb and Arm are both there at the end of this maze, it could be a toothpick for all I care.” Noct grumbles, muttering a curse as a root near trips him up, followed by a branch scraping his cheek.

“Okay! So, say the Tomb’s there, and so’s the weapon. What if it’s like, actually a fishing pole? You just reel your enemies in and _ssswwwhhhooossshhh_ them across the battlefield, hook, line, and sinker!”

Noctis snorts in an attempt to restrain a laugh, but Prompto can see a smile behind that gloved hand covering lips upturned from irritated frown.

“Pfft, I hope you’re right. I swear we’ve been walking for _hours_.”

“That just means we’re getting closer, yeah? No way they’d be leading us in circles.”

“Tell that to the same tree root that’s been kicking my ass.”

“Hey, tree root! Quit kicking Noct’s ass, would ya- _whoa!_ ” Prompto trips forward mid-scold, flailing ineffectively before a sturdy, slender body of lithe muscle saves him from falling flat on his face, gracefully catching him as though but a thoroughly rehearsed dance sequence. “Uh, um. Thanks for the save, Iggy.”

“Do try to keep your _roots_ on the _ground_ in the near future, mm?” The Advisor keeps him steady for a moment longer, heart thumping in his ears along with a suspiciously Noct-sounding fit of suppressed laughter. Maybe Gladio, too. Prompto licks dry lips, trying not to memorize every beautiful blemish on the man’s perfect face so very close to his. His camera certainly has.

“Aha, yeah! Thanks for uh, _branch_ ing out and not _leaf_ ing me to _fall_. Really appreciate it.” Prompto musters what little dignity he has left before parting ways with the Advisor’s arms, surely looking the part of a lovestruck fool barely keeping it together, because he knows for certain they can’t ever be. Together. He’s lucky enough just to have moments like these when the man’s smiling at him for the witty wordplay none of the others catch. “So, how’s the map reading going? We been barking up the wrong tree?”

“On the contrary--”

“The map’s not the problem.” Gladio cuts Ignis off, likely finishing whatever it was he was going to say, nodding whilst pulling out his phone yet again. “You guys see the sun?”

“Besides being big, bright, and making me wanna die?”

“Then lose the jacket, Princess.” Gladio retorts, strangely more serious than usual. “Prom, what’ve you noticed?”

“It’s, uh. Pretty high up? Like when we started.” The answer appears to appease the giant, Shield saying nothing in response as if waiting for him to get the bigger picture. “...wait, just how long _have_ we been walking?”

“Impossible to say.” The Advisor replies, turning his phone’s screen for them all to see. “This was the very same time we entered this wood, as well as the same time that ought appear on your phones as well, not just mine. I suspect we may have walked into a trap. One of the magical variety, that is.”

“Wait, wait, wait, we’re in a _trap_? What _kind_ of magic traps _people_?” Prompto’s mouth’s rambling off before he knows it, looking around as if he’ll be able to spy invisible restraints or a crafty cage. “I thought there was just like, y’know, elemental and healing magic, the kind that mages use in video games? And like, the real stuff Noct siphons from those rocks? What magic is doing...whatever this is?”

“Time magic.” Noct spits it out like a curse. “So that root that kept tripping me up, no matter what I did, Prom? It’s part of a time loop. So yeah, we _have_ been walking in circles. Wearing ourselves out--”

“So the caster, whomever they may be, can ‘finish the job’.” Ignis supplies. “And as I also suspect, they’ve been following us. Lurking. Waiting for the opportune moment.”

“Right, right. Quick question. How, uh, do we break the loop before that, um, happens? Asking for a friend.”

“Easy. Break the caster. One tap on the head, and it’s lights’ out, magic gone.” Gladio grins, cracking closed fists against palms before summoning greatsword. “All magic-users are pretty fragile shrimps, just like Noct here.”

“Hey!”

“As _fragile_ as our foe or foe _s_ may potentially be, we mustn’t let our guard down. Time magic is not something to trifle with. We must proceed with caution from here on out and be prepared for anything.” Ignis advises, daggers soon in his hands and at the ready, poised to strike at but a calculated flick of his wrists.

Noct follows suit, choosing a lance from the Armiger to keep himself at a reasonable distance. Prompto feels Quicksilver’s comforting weight in his dominant hand, sharp eyes scanning the plethora of trees, the very same they’d been aimlessly wandering through for only Six knows how long.

He spots movement amongst a grove then, hears them first before the caster enters his vision.

“Hey, uh. Gladio?” His voice squeaks, a miracle that the Shield even picks him up with a low grunt. “I thought you said magic-users were tiny, ‘cause this thing is _DEFINITELY NOT!_ ”

Whatever remark Gladio makes, Prompto doesn’t catch it.

It’s not a shrively old wizard with a grand beard and pointy hat like Prompto had led himself to believe, aiming his gun as Gladio howls and Noct warps in right behind him.

It’s not even _human_ for starters, monster the size of a garulessa with great tusks to match. Covered with thick, healthy foliage from the large horns upon its head down to four stocky legs, it’s no wonder they hadn’t seen it earlier. It’s almost kinda pretty in a majestic, ethereal way, blessing them with its presence upon the mortal plane. Though not technically given reason to believe that this is the caster they’re looking for, Prompto can feel it in his very soul as though time is at a standstill for how the creature stares at him. Doesn’t blink. Just stares with eyes the color of amber. Maybe if they apologize for trespassing upon its domain and ask nicely, the beast will just let them go, no harm done.

An attack lands on the magical creature from where and which ally, Prompto cannot pinpoint -- hell, it may have even been his own trigger-happy finger--, only that not even a second later does all hell break loose.

Its roar could shatter the very fabric of time, or at least his ear drums as Prompto covers one with a hand and the other with his shoulder while keeping his gun trained on their darkened eyes. The abundance of twisted vines and their ample leaves sway like at the mercy of a hurricane, an unseen force sending them on a frenzy. They’re not quite as vibrant green, or perhaps it’s a trick of the eyes, aged ever so slightly as the beast’s horns’ take on a glow, light near blinding as it swipes where Gladio had been only milliseconds before, ducking just in time as claws shred into a fully-grown tree. Or rather, what _had_ been a tree, the top portion crashing to the ground with not the quake of a timber, but rather the soft thud of a sapling.

Suddenly the concept of being trapped in a never-ending time loop until death doesn’t sound all that bad, except it kinda does. They don’t even have to kill the Time Beast, they just have to knock it out, right? Or maybe, like, distract it so it can’t focus on keeping them trapped in the loop? Are they even still _in_ the loop? Can they just make a break for it and pray to the Six they don’t get caught up in its’ magical clutches again? Prompto has no clue. It’s all just a bunch of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff.

But hey, he’s pretty good at distractions if that’s the case.

Conjuring Starshell, Prompto fires it high over the creature’s head before it has a chance to strike Ignis first, the Advisor’s gymnast grace twisting around a bucking kick of back legs. For a good moment, the special firework crackles brightly overhead.

The horns glow.

The leaves rustle amongst themselves like a whisper of ancient tongue.

Starshell’s _gone_ , specialty bullet back in his gun like he’d never fired it.

Noct rides on the creature’s flank by aid of lance piercing what must be flesh underneath, and the beast unleashes a roar that has the Prince dropping like a swatted fly to cover his ears. Gladio shouts amidst the chaos, catching his charge worn out from the day’s endless trek and stasis. Ignis is at his side, providing the Prince with a potion when the Shield deposits him behind a mossy rock.

“Keep ‘em covered, Blondie!” Providing cover is what he does best next to his uncanny sharpshooting skills, taking aim once more at the monster’s vulnerable eyes. “The thing’s getting worn out! Give it all you’ve got!”

The swordsman’s right, few of the leaves have wilted away while the rest have been discolored by the passage of time, transitioned into bright colors of fall. Veined skin the many shades of earth is exposed beneath, wrinkled and ashen in wounded areas.

Ignis has rejoined the fray, attacking at the creature’s backside once more, and Prompto means to fire Starshell to protect him when it rears up, towering on back legs before surely going to kick him like last time. But the gunner’s legs are faster, sprinting to shove him out of harm’s way--

Prompto collides with nothing but empty air, tumbling before recovering with a dodge roll and right back on quick feet. Ignis is still halfway across the forest-turned-battlefield and still at Noct’s side, Prince gaining his second wind whereas the beast appears opposite with a heavy limp.

The creature’s looking more like that ideal, shriveled-up old wizard if it’s any consolation to his selfless self-sacrifice amounting to Gladio yelling at him to get his shit back together. Had the Shield seen the time trick or not, Prompto doesn’t know, biting his lip before firing away once more. The thing’s definitely on its’ last legs and he wonders if they know it. It actually really sucks to put a beautiful ethereal being like this down, time master or not. He’s severely tempted to sneak a shot or a hundred of it, wishing to have gotten photographic evidence of its’ physical changes resulting from use of magic, beginning from a healthy, godlike creature to aging wise beyond its years condensed in a span of however long they’d truly been fighting, forcing the ancient woodland guardian to counter with powerful magic.

Prompto really hopes they can just knock it out rather than slay it like some unruly beast.

That thought in mind, Prompto fires Starshell again.

It sizzles and sparkles just like before, and just like before is Noctis preparing to warpstrike into the beast’s flank.

Is it preemptively aware of Noct’s attack? Is that even really Noctis? Gladio is still swinging away at the beast’s other side, Ignis out of his view but likely doing the very same.

The horns and tusks both glow, autumn leaves swirling about like the dead of winter as they fall away and crumple into nothingness. The fleeting thought crosses his mind that it looks like an elephant sans trunk before it hits him that this’s a final attack if he’s ever seen one.

Directed right at the Noct-who-might-or-might-not-be-really there -- but might-or-might-not, that’s still his _best friend_.

Even if it’s a trap to lure them into range to finish them off, Prompto still runs.

If he gets there first, the other guys won’t get caught up in it, right?

He _is_ the most expendable, after all. He may as well make himself useful.

Screaming Noct’s name as Shield and Advisor do the same -- maybe it’s his own and they’re pissed at him for falling for an obvious ruse, time’s moving too fast to tell -- Prompto raises his arms, whole body shielding the Prince that’s still there and wide-eyed with fear and clear it’s no illusion.

That’s...good. Maybe he actually will die for something, no greater way for that once lonely fat kid to pay Noct back for the best life he could’ve ever wished for.

Prompto closes his eyes just as the beast unleashes a roar as fierce as ever for appearing so frail and feeble, shaking him to his very core with a buzzing sensation like static. Any moment now, the thing will strike him down and he’ll be dead and gone and hey, maybe it will be, too. Then Noct and the others can get on with their lives without him dragging them down after insisting they come to this cursed wood in the first place by some inconsequential traveler’s tip.

It’s a win-win.

Except no finishing blow ever comes, unless Prompto’s counting the hands shaking his shoulders and prompting him to open his eyes.

“...mpto? Are you _insane_?” Noct’s voice questions right before his face, dipping his own closer to inspect him further. “Are you...Are you hurt or anything?”

He’s feeling rather alive for expecting death, a break the time paradox, a rift in both time and space, or something else horribly science-fiction-y for protecting his best friend. He turns his head, seeing nothing but Ignis and Gladio making their way towards them. The Time Beast is nowhere in sight, as though never existing to begin with. The sun’s also down pretty low, set at the late afternoon, and they’ve reached a dead end.

No Royal Arm, not even a Tomb.

“...bit anticlimactic if ya ask me.” The Shield goes over to the fallen sapling, taking in proof that the monster had indeed existed. “That thing shoulda been doing a ton more damage.”

“Yes, it would appear we’ve gotten off rather fortunate.” Ignis agrees, assisting in helping the pair to their feet. “Are the two of you alright? Prompto?”

“Prom won’t be if he pulls something like that again.” Noct frowns, entirely serious with a dozen emotions swirling like galaxies in the night sky of his eyes. He keeps staring at him, looking him over as though convinced that _something_ must have happened to his best friend.

“Sorry, dude, part of the job.” The blond shrugs nonchalantly, internally chastising himself for the new flash of hurt that whips across Noct’s face as though struck.

“Prompto?” Ignis inquires again, sharing the very same sentiment as their Prince, and there’s part of him that wants to tell the truth.

He doesn’t feel so good.

“I--yeah, I’m fine. Didn’t even feel a thing. Maybe it just ‘poofed’ when it realized it couldn’t win against our awesome skills, y’know? Just like in King’s Knight.” Prompto manages a smile, finger guns a shootin’. “Anyway, it’s my bad. I should’ve made sure that info was legit instead of just taking that guy’s word for it. Sorry.”

“‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained’, as the saying goes.” Ignis smoothly assure him, faint smile upon his lips. “What matters most is that we escaped unscathed.”

“And we’re keeping it that way. Let’s get the hell outta here.” Noct adds, Gladio in agreement as he takes lead to guide them out, a far easier task now that they’re no longer walking in quite literal circles.

It still feels like forever to Prompto as though he’s dissociating like when in the throes of a major panic attack -- those, he thankfully hasn’t had even once on their roadtrip--, disconnecting from reality and whatever idle conversation the three are having around him. Have they always been taller than him? He coulda sworn he had Noct by an inch.

Maybe he’s just slouching, brushing limp hair away from his eyes, it’s been a hell of a long day. He’s tired and feeling more out of it by the second, dread filling his heart but without explanation, as per usual with anxiety. Prompto’s probably just imagining it -- he does tend to do that a lot.

He just...can’t really remember why they’re here.

Gladio mentions something about camp in the drone of talk he can barely decipher from his spiraling storm of thoughts. Okay, yeah. They’ve gone camping a few times in the summer, that’s probably what this is -- except he can’t recall the big guy having a wild mane of hair, but then again, he’s not wearing his civillian’s cap, so maybe that’s why. Noct looks pretty normal, sans the gaining a couple inches on him, and Ignis--

Ignis is watching him, glancing over his shoulder to look at the blond. Expectant. Had. Had he asked him something? And since when had he started gelling his hair to stick up like that?

Okay, okay. Calm down, Prompto.

“Sorry, what?” He asks, cringing at how pathetic he sounds. No wonder the man doesn’t like him, obviously only tolerating his presence because of Noct.

“I was simply noticing that you look out of sorts. Perhaps you ought to lie down when we reach camp.” The man who doesn’t look quite like Ignis but unmistakingly _is_ Ignis explains rather kindly, and it’s all he can do to nod with a weak smile. He gets it. Ignis is too polite around Noct to complain what a burden he is.

‘Out of sorts’ is the understatement of the century, but he keeps his mouth shut. Whatever this is, it’ll pass.

It doesn’t.

It only gets worse when they reach the Haven.

 

* * *

 

This isn’t where they usually set up camp.

Hell, he can’t even _see_ Insomnia, always in sight and never too far away from the Wall’s protection. If he freaks out, the guys will notice. They haven’t taken their eyes off him, at least not for long, as though this is all some kinda test as part of his Crownsguard training.

Prompto hopes he’s doing well despite not remembering shit. He really, really does. He helps Gladio restart the fire, cleans his gun, keeps watch over the unrecognizable horizon of a land he doesn’t know. He wants to do good so badly that it physically hurts.

Why does he hurt so much? Should he. Should he tell the guys?

And have him look weak and pathetic, unfit for Crownsguard if he can’t handle whatever this is?

No way.

Prompto keeps his mouth shut. His foot taps on Haven stone, fingers drumming on the arm of the chair. He’s so antsy, awaiting orders that he prays to the Six he can follow.

“Prompto?” Ignis asks from the kitchen area, blond nearly jolting from his seat in eagerness to please. He needs help cooking, right? He can do that, he’ll do anything, but Ignis just holds his hand up, signaling for him to sit back down which he obediently (reluctantly) does. “What would you like for supper?”

It’s not a new question. He remembers when the Advisor would ask when it was just the two of them at Noct’s place, Prince called away to attend an important meeting. But Noct is here and so’s Gladio, so why ask him?

“Uh, green so _up_ cu _rry_ \--” Oh _Gods_ , did his voice just crack? _Twice_? It must have, because Gladio’s laughing in the midst of pushups, teasing him with that deep, rumbling voice of his like that of thunder. Prompto hides his face in his hands, oblivious to the chef’s stern request that the Shield be kind, leaning back in his chair like always.

It topples over backwards as though suddenly unaccustomed to his weight, taking Prompto down with it as he scrambles to stand before either man reacts.

Oh Gods.

Gods, is he _gaining weight_.

Prompto pinches that stubborn bit of belly fat that’s never truly gone away, finding it to be much, much larger than last he checked in his bathroom mirror. His clothes aren’t shrinking, oh no, he’s getting _fat_ after dieting and running so hard, losing all of that precious progress he worked so _hard_ for--!!

He can’t let anyone see him like this.

Who...Who even are those two, again? They...They aren’t Noct, so it doesn’t matter. He can’t let _Noct_ see _him_ like _this_.

Prompto ducks inside the open tent.

Right into Prince Noctis.

At least, he’s far taller than Prompto remembers, but still every bit as everything the blond’s not. Noctis looks at _him_ \-- gross, ugly, fat, and hideous _him_ \--, taking hold of his hand and asking something that the prepubescent boy can hardly understand for all the fear swirling inside him. He doesn’t even notice he’s thinned out considerably, clothes loosely hanging on his beanpole of a frame.

The Lucian shouts an alert, practically dragging the child out of the tent by his tiny wrist cloaked in gloves much too large. This isn’t the training facility, not even to the outside world he’s so used to of snowy whites and cloudy grays. He has no memory of coming here, knows nothing at all, and it _terrifies_ him.

The Scientist and Guard stare down at the boy, expressions unreadable, and it’s the only familiarity he knows.

That’s what scares him the most.


	2. Runaway Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young, confused, and absolutely terrified Prompto makes a break for it while the three argue amongst themselves.
> 
> Unbearable hunger brings him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the love and support from the first chapter! It really means a lot, and I hope I continue to write to your expectations.
> 
> Like ripping your hearts out :D

 

“Astrals above.” The Scientist exhales, pushing all-too-familiar glasses up his nose as though to be sure of the sight before him. It’s a steeled expression that like always, the boy can never read. It’s usually better that way to be oblivious as to what they’re thinking behind that mask of indifference as cold as metallic operating tables he’d be forced upon by way of restraints. Always so unreadable, scribbling away at a clipboard while another would jab him with scalpels and needles in search for whatever caused him to malfunction for the umpteenth time.

The corrections are necessary, the child knows this.

But they always, always hurt.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.” Curses the Guard with dark voice like a growl, a muscled giant of pure intimidation with arms crossed. He doesn’t dare peer up at the behemoth’s face, not out of respect for the superior, but fear. So much fear that his empty stomach churns and his whole body aches in memory. Not strong enough, not fast enough, not up to standards. Screamed at, threatened, forced to repeat rigorous drills and exercises over and over and over and over, and still never good enough for as long as he can remember. Their joy was inflicting pain upon him like a favorite pastime, but when they were frustrated and angry with his poor results, when their voices would raise--

The boy can taste bile at the back of his dry throat, tongue brushing over few gummy gaps. An unconcerned Scientist had made the cool observation that the adult ones would grow in, only irritated at the blood making their work more difficult and uncaring that he’d been punched in the face and left lying unconscious on the training mat.

“What’re we going to do with him?” This one he’s only heard about in lectures, seen pictures of in classified documents of those who live in the “Kingdom of Lucis” in its capitol called “Insomnia”. A Lucian. An unknown, unpredictable variable. An enemy of the Empire that the child can only presume that like with everyone else, will inevitably hurt him. Torture him. Make him spill all of Niflheim’s secrets.

 _What’re we going to do with him_?

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know where he is, what he’s doing here in a foreign place -- _Lucis?--_ , who they are. He doesn’t even know why he’s not in uniform and wearing clothes that’re far too big on him as though intended for a grown-up. Most importantly, he _doesn’t_ know what they’re going to do with him. _To_ him.

This is bad. He needs to do something. Remember something. Anything that’s led him to this moment before they discover how incompetent he is and do something painful about it.

But he doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know, _he doesn’t know,_ **_he doesn’t know._ **

All he knows is that their voices are getting louder. Angrier too, no doubt, and that’s really bad. Any second now, if --  _when_ they find out he’s malfunctioning, that anger will be directed at him. He knows what they’ll ‘do with him’ then.

The Lucian no longer holds his wrist. He can’t recall when he’d let go.

None are looking at him when he peeks up with fearful violet eyes.

His heart pounds as though capable of leaping out of his mouth, lips trembling but tightly shut to prevent any noise, breaths quick and harsh through his nose. That’s the biggest malfunction of them all, these moments where his thought processes all scramble together, resulting in unacceptable performances of him ultimately passing out because he can’t control it.

But he doesn’t pass out, doesn’t trip out of the boots nearly thrice his size that he quietly steps out of. They don’t notice, too busy debating amongst themselves and he’s too scared to focus on what he already knows.

He knows better than to run, but it won’t stop him from trying anyway.

There’s nothing left to lose, nothing worse they can do to him that hasn’t already been done.

They’re all the same even if he doesn’t recognize their particular faces.

He takes a step back. The pant legs nearly trip him up without the boots on, but still is he left undetected. The belt is set to an adult’s waistline, making it just as simple to slide out of. The large sleeveless vest and shirt keep him covered for the most part, loose boxers just clinging to his hips like the socks protecting his small feet. There’s large gloves swallowing his little hands, cloth and a leather strap on his right, but they’re unimportant for the moment. He can’t waste what precious seconds he has on trivial matters, not when he feels like passing out at the stupid, reckless idea to flee that never ends well and certainly won’t now.

He stares at them, sweat beading down his forehead, palms sweaty. He holds his breath. Drops oversized pants.

Done.

Pivoting on his heels, he breaks into a run, faster than he ever has in his life, toes kissing the edge of the campsite before his heart stops. He doesn’t know where the hell he’s going. Doesn’t know where he is, where’s safe -- if any such place exists. His storage pod is all he considers to be ‘safe’, as cramped and suffocating as it is, but no one hurts him there.

Suddenly there’s shouting, a name within that no one’s addressed him by since granted his numerical designation. He’s forgotten that again, too, like the malfunctioning mistake he is.

Heavy footsteps thunder behind him, unbearably loud with the guarantee of capture if he doesn’t get a move on _right now_.

He jumps off the stone edge. Falls hard on his knees.

Runs.

His name is yelled, verbal and internal orders demanding he stop and come back. Defiance always makes things worse, especially the longer he remains unintentionally disobedient.

He still doesn’t stop.

 

* * *

 

In the end, he doesn’t make it very far.

Can’t make it very far as he is, knees bleeding and stomach twisting in turmoil.

To his credit, he does manage to elude the Lucian and the Guard, hiding beneath brush and chomping down on the meaty part of his palm to keep quiet when they pass him by, shouting his name through cupped hands. They search up trees, between boulders, and very nearly through the bushes he cowers in before hastily moving on to the next potential hiding place and next area.

He’s not very far when he smells it, like the mess hall he’s no longer allowed in until his scores improve, but better. So much better that he could cry and uncertain it’s because he’s banned from rations and can’t have any food, or that he’s just that hungry. He cries anyway, tears dripping from dirty cheeks onto the ground inches below.

It’s got to be a trap, smell wafting from the camp he’d just fled from. He knows better than this. It would be stupid to go back.

But he _is_ stupid.

Stupid and very, very hungry.

His body moves with a mind of its own despite reminding himself that this is a horrible idea. It’s a trap. A test. Both. Either way, he can’t afford to risk it.

He’s standing at the edge of the campsite before he knows it.

There’s not a single soul in sight, source of the delicious smell residing over the fire and left completely unguarded. His stomach growls, more like whimpers, commanding him to step onto stone regardless of his mind ceaselessly warning what an idiotic plan this is.

He knows, he _knows_.

He’s just. So hungry. No one’s here. One bite. One bite is all he needs. No one will have to know, and maybe won’t even notice if he’s extra careful.

He bites his lip. Swallows the heavy lump in his throat.

It’s like an impossible stretch of distance from where he sways on his feet, step by slow step, to the fire. It feels like forever, but he blinks and suddenly he’s there. A utensil protrudes from the pot filled with things he’s never seen before, but smell all the stronger the closer he stands.

This is _human food_.

Magitek Troopers are not permitted to have _human food._

This is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But Shiva, he’s just so _hungry_ , little fingers grasping the utensil and lifting out of the thick, kinda soup-y substance. There’s some in the utensil’s bottom scoop, so close now that he can practically taste it. He’s drooling, mouth wide open for the first bite  _right there_ \--

“Oh, thank the Six.”

He’s stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The child freezes at sight of the Scientist emerging from the tent, utensil slipping out of his hand with a messy clatter on the ground. He’s not sure which to be more upset by, being found out, or the waste of food.

Run.

He needs to run before he gets caught, before the other two return, before they get angry. Yet all he can do is fall to his bloody knees and clutch his stomach, eyes shut as tight as the crushing pain in his empty gut. A wail rips out of him, squeezing the air from his lungs.

He’s just so _hungry_.

There’s a ‘ping’ of noise followed by retreating footsteps. Dishes moving. Another ‘ping’. Footsteps approaching. Halting right before him. He dares open his eyes against better judgement.

The Scientist holds a bowl in one hand, a clean utensil in the other. There’s a much smaller one in the bowl that he thinks is called a ‘spoon’. The boy watches, too entranced by the glasses-wearing man using the larger utensil to fill the bowl to notice how critically the Scientist watches him, heart breaking at the tears flooding from child’s eyes and hitching sobs trying so hard to remain steady.

“Sshh, shhh. It’s alright. Don’t cry, you're alright.” The Scientist assures, completely unlike a Scientist at all as he slowly crouches in front of him with bowl held out in offering. “Here, you can have as much as you like.”

It’s a test. It _must_ be a test. Everything is _always_ a test. That’s what this is. By being good now, maybe the others won’t be as angry about his running away.

"It's alright. You can have it." The man shifts forward to try and offer it again, but the boy recoils, scooting back on his behind with a cry between sniffles. The Scientist frowns. 

 _Why is he frowning?_  

"Come now, you must be famished. It's quite alright." Still he obediently (reluctantly) refuses, traitorous stomach growling in protest and biting lip so hard he’ll draw blood if not careful, backing away with a whimper from injured knees. The man stops trying to get closer, just holding the bowl out instead with oddly green eyes taking on a glistening sheen.  "Please, I insist."

The child doesn’t understand. The Scientist should be happy about his refusal, writing it down on a clipboard that must be around somewhere. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? He did good, right? But Shiva. Shiva, he wants that food more than anything in the world.

Then the glasses-wearing man sighs a deep sigh, setting the bowl down and stepping away.

Suddenly he’s too hungry to care if it’s a test or trap or even poisoned. Suddenly the spoon’s held impossibly tight in a gloved fist, shaking hand cradling the bowl against his chest as if it’ll be ripped away at any moment. It wouldn’t be the first time. Suddenly he’s stuffing his face, coughing and sputtering and swallowing and oblivious to all else as he eats and eats and eats. Suddenly he's crying for an entirely new reason.

He's never, ever, ever eaten anything so _good_.

It hits him then when the bowl’s licked clean with great haste, a strange sensation spreading from his stomach to his whole body, a sort of tired heaviness that would feel comforting if not completely terrifying for a new experience. He can hardly keep his eyes open, much less remain sitting up.

Shiva. It was a test. A trap. Poisoned.

And he _fell for it_.

With the last of his strength, he curls inward in last ditch effort to protect his body while weakly crying himself to sleep.

He’s so...so _stupid_.

 

* * *

 

Ignis finally releases the tabletop from grip so tight his knuckles must be bone-white beneath leather gloves. It’d taken every ounce of self-control he’d possessed to not approach Prompto, to not take the bowl away before he could and inevitably would make himself sick from eating like a child near starved to death, hunched posture and desperation giving all away. The boy had been _crying_ , for Six’s sake, and the Advisor knows damn well it hadn’t just been from the heat, green soup curry hardly cooled and surely having scalded his tongue and all the way down. His willpower had almost cracked, almost given out completely when the blond had tossed the spoon aside in favor of face to greedily lick up every last drop. Ignis would’ve given anything to gather the child in his arms and provide comfort, to wipe away tears that’d no place being there, but stopped only by memory of that same boy’s terrified expression when caught with ladle in hand. It’s a miracle Prompto had even come back at all, if not for the clear reason he’d been so blinded by hunger to think of little else.

His phone vibrates in his pocket with yet another ‘ping’, no doubt a text from Noct’s impatience on Prompto’s condition as he’d notified both Prince and Shield of his relatively safe return to the Haven. He’d informed them to hold off for the time being, unwilling to risk the boy running off again and at such a late hour. Taking a step away from the camp’s kitchen, he quietly approaches the sleeping child pitifully curled in on himself, tears clinging to delicate eyelashes.

He takes the boy’s bloodied knees as a personal responsibility, withdrawing a potion from his pocket and taking only half a sigh of relief at skin healing anew. The other half is how relaxed his tense little face becomes, almost like the young man he once was but an hour ago. Ignis crouches down, brushes the hair from his face before maneuvering to gingerly pick him up. Six, Prompto is far too light, far too skinny in his arms that he's positive he can feel bone beneath vest and shirt. No wonder he'd so easily slipped out of pants and boots without their notice, too preoccupied quarreling amongst themselves to pay the very subject of their debate any mind.

They've already failed him once. Twice.

Ignis has no intention of letting it occur again.

“Up we go, there we are. Let’s set you down for a nap, mm?” Murmuring with a softness even unknown to himself, he carries him to the tent for just that. Prompto, thankfully, doesn’t stir, curling his body into his chest with but a trace of a whimper and feeble attempt at clinging when lowered. With all his earlier worrying behaviors, the Advisor can’t help a small smile while laying the boy to rest within folds of his sleeping bag, aforementioned garments left nearby. He can only hope the time magic will run its course quickly, painlessly, and without further incident, unable to resist smoothing his hand through messy blond locks once more. It may be his imagination, but it appears to have a calming effect and so he keeps mental note of it. “We’ll figure this out, don’t you fret, young Prompto. Everything will be alright.”

His phone goes off again, and so he rises to take his leave.

Noct and Gladio await at the Haven's edge, former held back by the latter, though just as concerned over their cursed companion.

They _will_ figure this out.


	3. A Comforting Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto receives the first comforting touch of his entire young life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again for all the love and support! It means a ton :)

Soft.

Warm.

 _Safe_.

The boy’s rarely experienced one of these sensations, and never a comforting combination of the three all rolled into one in a quiet, sparsely lit room of sorts. For a long time he just lies there, drifting in and out of consciousness and genuinely relieved to wake back up in this strange yet safe place before peacefully floating free of reality. In the back of his mind he knows this isn’t right -- he should be recharging in his storage pod while standing at attention in the tiny, tiny metal space as cold as the tundra wasteland outside. Not soft, not warm, and not safe, not when any moment someone will drag him out for tests and drills while finding all new ways to hurt him.

He bites his lip because none of that is happening, sniffling because this is so _good_. Tears quietly roll down the side of his face as he curls in on himself in the odd yet comfortable fabric he’s laying within. Now that he’s felt this, it’ll hurt all the more when it inevitably gets taken away like every little scrap of comfort he never grasps onto for long enough. Any moment now he’ll really wake up, and this will never have been real. Worse, it’s just another test, and by failing like he always does, it’ll hurt even _more_.

At that thought, he winds up crying himself back to sleep, child hoping with all his little heart has that he’ll still be here when his eyes open once more.

He is.

And he isn’t alone.

Maybe the voices were there all along and he just never took notice. The probability is high with how stupid and non-observant he is. Just like running away, like sneaking back, like eating the food not meant for him -- oh, Shiva, that had really happened, hadn’t it? The one thing he can finally remember, and it’s  _that_.

His stomach suddenly seizes up, gut violently churning as does his mind working overtime to frantically think of something else. One of those voices is the Scientist, the other two he can vaguely recall shouting and searching for him. The Guard and the Lucian.

They’re back. He doesn’t know when. Doesn’t know how long. Doesn’t know anything except they’re **angry.**

All at once, nothing is soft. Nothing is warm. Nothing is safe.

The boy scrambles to sit up despite his body’s fearful protest to remain still or spill his stomach’s contents that shouldn’t be full to begin with. He’s fearfully aware once again that he doesn’t know where he is, so stupid to have ignored his surroundings in favor of sleep. The room is small and strangely shaped with no way out, little light source coming from an object sitting on the ground and external from the wall at his feet. That larger light flickers in an orange glow, casting shadows like the dark beasts he’s seen only in passing through pristine laboratories. Monsters of twisted proportions, snarling, cackling, reaching out for him to snatch him away with vicious claws. Some that beneath hideous altercations, share his face, share the blood injected into his veins.

_Daemons._

They’re heavy in discussion, pacing back and forth like the creatures in their cages. Stalking. Growing larger. Louder.

**Angrier.**

The boy watches, frozen in fear, making not a single movement as his heart hammers away inside his chest. They’re talking about him, they must be, but he’s too scared to make out the words, can hardly hear them over the white noise screeching in his ears like a million sirens.

“What the _hell_...get my fucking hands on...”

“We can’t just do...it’s Prom...”

Fiercely chomping down on his lip, the child holds back a whimper. They’re talking about hurting him. How best to do it, surely, to make it as painful as possible.

“Things like this aren’t easily fixed, best to--”

No.

_No._

They mean to decommission him, then. To tear into him, piece by piece, because that’s what happens to units after failing so many times. Malfunctioning too many times. He should have expected it to come to this, he deserves this.

It still doesn’t stop the shrill, strangled sob from escaping his lips.

“Shit, is he awake?”

Suddenly, the loud voices aren't as terrifying as the silence that follows.

Suddenly, the silence isn't as terrifying as the wall slowly, slowly zipping open.

The sole barrier keeping him safe from the monsters of men is gone just like that.

He wails aloud without meaning, scrambling his way out of the bag of fabric with wobbly legs he could’ve sworn were busted and bleeding. Stumbling in sheer desperation to get away, socked feet trip on various items strewn about, sending him crashing on knees before picking himself back up to the back wall. Violet eyes wildly search with little hands finding no give against flimsy yet sturdy material. There’s no way out. No way to escape. He crumples against the far corner, curled impossibly tight into the smallest ball he can muster on the off-chance that maybe, maybe they won’t see him.

It’s stupid.

Of course they do, three pairs of eyes staring back at him with facial expressions contorted by shadow. He doesn’t need to clearly see what he already knows.

It’s always anger.

They’re going to hurt him, and like always, there’s nothing he can do about it.

One of them, he’s malfunctioning too much to tell which -- though not that it matters -- steps inside.

The child throws up.

He throws up and wastes all that good, good partially digested food that spews past trembling lips and runs down his chin all over the vest and shirt he still has no memory of. It’s not his. Whoever it belongs to, they’ll be angry with him. The Scientist and Guard and Lucian -- they’ll all be angrier with him for wasting it and making a mess. If he’s honest, nothing will hurt more than the fact that he has, coughing and gagging with choking breaths and heart racing a million miles per second in his throat.

They’re talking.

Now he really can’t understand what they’re saying, everything a mind-numbing blur of sight and sound and fear, tears pouring down pasty cheeks. It’s as though he’s paralyzed, rooted to the spot while feeling perilously on edge, so very tense and so very frightened. He’s going to pass out before they’ve even started, both a blessing and a curse.

Two of them leave, but it does little to placate malfunctions when there’s still one remaining inside. The Scientist. The one that directly and indirectly tested him with the food he’s currently wearing all over himself with a foul acidic stench. It makes sense for that particular tormentor to lash out at him first.

The glasses-wearing man steps closer, and there’s nowhere for the boy to recoil this time. His face comes into the light, eyes still that bizarre shade of green. He doesn’t look mad at all, and the child doesn’t understand. He _should_ be.

 _Why isn’t he angry_?

Whatever he’s saying, low and slow and quiet, doesn’t sound angry at all. There’s a knock at the wall-flap, and the man turns to take what’s being handed over to him before pivoting back around with a dampened cloth and glass of water. He hasn’t a clue what either could be for, pressing himself further into the corner with a choked whimper of bile and tears. The Scientist still shows no indication of being angry with him, foreign accent still soft and warm like the heavy fabric he’d been sleeping in, and takes a step forward. The child flinches back despite having nowhere to flee to, and the man lowers himself to his knees just like before, mindful of the full glass that he sets aside.

The room is so small, yet the distance so great.

It takes but a blink for the man to finally reach him, yet also a lifetime.

All the boy has to do is listen, decipher what the man is repeating and obey what’s being ordered of him -- he’ll only get himself in more trouble if he doesn’t. Anger followed by pain is all he knows -- to not have clear indication of the former makes his actions unpredictable to where the pain will begin. It’s unnerving to malfunctioning nerves rapidly coursing through his fragile frame. Expectant. It’s ironic, thinking eventual pain will make him feel better the longer whatever this is drags on. The Scientist holds the damp towel out, speaking softly. He _should_ be able to hear him being so damn close, but he can’t. He can’t, he can’t. Shiva, why is he so _stupid_ \--

Oh.

He means to strike him with it, slowly moving it towards his face. Despite now knowing with great relief that the waiting will be over soon, the child still squeezes his eyes shut.

The hit never comes.

Instead, it’s lightly pressed against his chin, touch soft and gentle just like the man’s voice murmuring phrases he can barely make out now.

“Shh, shh...you’re alright...”

He sniffles.

No one’s ever, ever touched him like this, never in a way that doesn’t hurt. He’s never, ever experienced anything like it in all his short life. The towel wipes at his mouth, slow and careful, and he’s suddenly aware of how he’s tilting into the touch. Seeking more of it. Leaning so forward with all his meager weight that he’s surely, pathetically on the man’s lap by now in blind effort to soak up all he can. He doesn’t even know he’s crying until the towel is pulled away, unleashing a weak sob at the loss. Begging never works, he knows better, but the plea not to stop is still there on cleaned lips.

A hand cards through his hair, not painful in the slightest, all light and soothing with each and every slow stroke.

“Don’t cry, I’ve got you...here, let’s...”

The edge of a glass rests on his bottom lip, badly startling him enough to open his eyes and pull away as liquid spills down his front before the Scientist quickly recovers and withdraws the hand from his hair.

He’s wasted _water_.

That must be the final straw. There’s no way he isn’t slated for decommission after failing so many times, wasting so many precious resources. If this is the end, and it _is_ , he’s at least happy to have had that sliver of comfort as undeserving as he was and shuts his eyes as if possible to savor the memory before the end.

The towel’s back.

He could cry.

He is.

“Oh, Prompto, you’re alright, little one. Ssshh, sshh.” The Scientist resumes murmuring in that gentle tone that sounds nothing like a scientist. Feels nothing like a scientist. Doesn’t even refer to him by his numerical designation he’s long forgotten. “Let’s get you dried back up, hm? Here we are. You’re alright. Please don’t cry.”

Prompto doesn’t know what ‘alright’ means, but knows he’s never been ‘alright’. He nods slowly, hopefully, anything to keep this soft, mesmerizing motion of the back-and-forth wiping across his face and clothes.

“There we are. All better. Can you drink some water for me? It’d make me very happy if you tried.”

Another chance. He’s being given a second chance to not waste a vital resource, to prove he isn’t a complete and utter failure, to make the Scientist _happy_ . He’s so desperate to be good that he chokes on the water taken in gulps much too large. He’s so stupid, he should’ve known better, he’s _messing everything up --_

The glass is gone, replaced by the hand on his back.

Any moment now, he’ll be struck.

The hit never comes.

Instead, just like with the towel and his hair, Prompto’s met with nothing but tenderness. The hand rubs circles along his spine, firm yet unbelievably gentle.

He could cry.

He is.

The Scientist keeps it up even when his spluttering has long since ceased, once again melting into the touch.

“Your clothes are rather filthy. They’ll need to be removed in exchange for clean ones.” He speaks up after a moment, quietly explaining with no mind to how disheveled his own have become at the child’s closeness. Obediently without a moment’s hesitation, the boy makes the move to undress himself. Considering all observations, the behavior is worrisome. “A moment. Are you alright with this? Do you _want_ your clothes off?”

Prompto peers up at him with watery violet eyes wide with puzzlement. No one has ever, ever asked him if he was ‘alright’ with anything, ever. Troopers obey the orders they are given, no matter what they are or how damaging to their well-being. Picking up basic understanding of ‘alright’ -- and eager, so eager to show his obedience --, the boy nods. He would be ‘alright’ without the vest and shirt. He is in need of a replacement. He is compliant. He does as he’s told, shedding the vest draped over his thin body that helped spare the boxers he leaves on, moving on to remove the vastly oversized gloves, wristband -- there's a strange sound from the man at that--, and black fabric. Finally at last, the shirt.

Then everything happens at once.

The Scientist swears, the curses nothing new to his ears, but new at the regular sight that’s never gained such an unhappy reaction, always unaffected and uncaring. The Lucian, at that same moment, peeks inside the room before quickly withdrawing with what sounds like an exclamation of what, the child doesn’t hear because he’s replaced with the Guard and he--

He.

Is.

 **Angry**.

The giant storms into the room, behemoth-sized feet stomping with huge muscles appearing all the larger in the small space and soon towering over him. He’s angry and shouting like someone’s flipped a switch, all previous comforts whisked away and leaving the child with nothing but pure, unrestrained, raging anger condensed into a single, pissed-off being all directed entirely at him.

“Who the **fuck** laid their hands on you?!”


	4. Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some questions have no answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not often I think to myself how much I'm loving what I'm writing. These kinds of stories are my jam, so to see you all enjoying this makes me just as happy! Thank you so much for your kudos ( over 200?!) and support/reactions in the comments ;^; They mean as much as Prompto to the guys!

 

“Gladio--” 

“Who the fuck would do _this_ to you?!”

If the Shield is expecting an answer, he most certainly is not getting one. Prompto’s reaction to his storming into the tent had been immediate, sheer terror engulfing the hesitant contentment Ignis had patiently worked so hard to achieve, overwhelming despair reading like a neon sign in the darkest of nights. The boy had recoiled away as though shocked, as though Ignis himself no longer existed, near-naked body pressing into the corner once more in a far greater effort to flee than when it had just been the Advisor’s cautious approach, a step forward resulting in an equal step back. The child would be sprinting miles for every stomping boot of the enraged behemoth’s charge if given the chance.

Ignis cannot blame either.

However, now is not the time for anger as much as he can feel it broiling in every fiber of his being, a ferocity as scathing to the touch as Sagefire. The urge to find those responsible is insatiable, no amount of justice enough to pay a fraction of the price. How he’s retaining his calm and collected demeanor, Ignis will never know -- but he does, as much as it pains him when his vision lands on cursed companion reliving a hell unimaginable with wide, tear-filled eyes seeing beyond the furious giant.

It’s what Prompto so desperately needs now more than ever before in these few hours filled with heartbreak.

“Some bastard’s been using him like a godsdamn punching bag, Ignis!” Gladio snarls with an edge sharper than any blade, slashing through the boy’s paper-thin defenses like the scars criss-crossed along his frail, too-skinny body trembling with panic unfathomable. Some are smoothed over by the unkind passage of time, others a couple weeks and plainly left unattended to heal on their own. Many are far too recent, and the Shield isn’t wrong on his observation, more than just cuts scattered across his front from just what they can spot.

The sight makes him physically ill, stomach in knots of what the child’s back must look like.

 _“Not now, Gladio."_ Ignis hisses over his shoulder, a warning to the man as much as to himself, forced between stopping the Shield’s angered advances or comforting the child before surely vomiting stomach’s remnants again. The odds of de-escalating a rampaging Gladio without triggering Prompto further is an unacceptable risk, Advisor keeping the child’s needs as top priority as he attempts to crawl towards the cowering, hyperventilating ball of a boy. His face is pinched shut, breaths hitching with poorly concealed cries.

“There’s no ‘not now’! Are you even looking at him, Iggy? Who the **_fuck_ ** did this to you?!” He’s gotten closer, voice booming just as loud and likely unaware to both that and to how Prompto’s on the dangerous verge of a meltdown the longer the Shield has his. A large hand snatches the child’s right wrist, the very same where his wristband once was and focus of nervous tics, and the blond screams a half-aborted sob. “Is that a _fucking_ \--”

“ _Gladiolus Amicitia, you release him this instant!_ ” To his credit he does, but Ignis shouting only has Prompto begin to wail -- more shrieking than sobbing -- choking for air that he’s sure the boy will puke if not pass out. Both. Without thinking and against better judgement, he pulls him onto his lap, plastering his wet face to hide against his chest for the moment, hand covering ear. The boy doesn’t even put up a sliver of a fight, just cries harder in attempt to bury himself into his ribcage. “You _must_ control your temper.”

“Ignis, how am I supposed to when he’s been -- _Prompto’s_ been --, kid, you better have some fucking names, I’ll kill--”

 _"Gladiolus!_ ” Ignis warns for a final time in a tone sure to send any savage beast running with tail between their legs, but it’s too late.

Hot liquid streams through his pants.

The Shield smells it then, the smell of a child scared out of his wits and hanging together by a few threads he’d unintentionally sliced clean-through with unbridled fury. He sees it then, the wet telltale stain right at the crotch from a kid so fucking scared they pissed their fucking underwear.

“ _Shit_...shit, I’m so sorry.” All the anger, all the rage -- it’s all vanquished. Snuffed out like a candle. The behemoth of a man wilts like a flower, inner turmoil running rampant from outrage to unbearable guilt. Ignis sighs, a deep, heavy sigh that Gladio knows to be a release of all the tension and stress the Advisor’s been bottling up for Prompto’s sake and not making a shitshow of a molotov cocktail for the already traumatized kid to witness firsthand.

The boy’s bawling like no tomorrow, and there’s no fixing that.

Not from him.

“Fetch me a change of clothes for him, then leave.”

“Iggy, I--”

“I know, Gladio.” Because he does, he really does. They’ve known one another since childhood, and Ignis knows how his large heart bleeds for the weak and vulnerable, soft spot strengthened by helping raise his baby sister to the young teenager of today. Ignis understands though Prompto means just as much to them both, and sees what he does. Feels what he does.

But the boy doesn’t know any of this. The chance to prove the big brother of a Shield means him no harm may be impossible to achieve now, if not until the magic has released its hold. Ignis has never seen Gladio appear so defeated. It’s a first, and he hopes to the very same Astrals that’ve cursed them in this situation for it to be the last. He’d even be so bold as to demand to the heavens for judgement against the child’s past tormentors, for Ramuh to smite them where they stand should they still exist on this mortal plane. Better yet, be granted their location to pass his own judgement with cold, calculating hands.

Prompto whimpers against his tightened hold, pitifully struggling to escape until he takes notice and loosens it. He wonders if the child would be making a run for it were Gladio not still in the tent, hunched over at the blond’s bags in search of clean garments. Perhaps, and Ignis has no doubt of this, he thinks they’re angry about him urinating himself and by extension, the unpredictable stranger already covered in his bodily fluids. The Advisor does not blame him at all, holds not so much an ounce of disgust or a grudge for magic’d ally to pay him back in dry-cleaning bills once this is over. His worry over Prompto far, far exceeds that to where he could care less about soiled clothing, wishing for him to feel safe and secure in his presence no matter the cost to himself.

But the boy doesn’t know any of that, doesn’t know he’s surrounded by trusted friends that love him deeply and would give and do anything for him. It’ll be a master undertaking to rebuild that foundation or at least a semblance of it, to make themselves worthy of fragile trust like the very same that has the boy melt into the simple, soothing touch to his hair when Ignis smooths a hand through disheveled blond locks. Gladio’s managed to find suitable replacements, a sleeveless red top that’ll do as a nightshirt and a fresh, clean pair of underwear. He’s even got socks, silently noting how filthy his had become from his adventure in the wood. The Shield says nothing, either without the words to say or fearful of triggering another negative reaction, the absolute remorse in amber eyes speaks volumes, setting the clothes aside for them before taking his leave when Ignis nods, eyes silently responding in kind.

It’s back to just the two of them, and he wonders for a moment how Noct is faring. If he knows his Prince at all -- and Six does he --, it’s poorly. He’ll simply have to trust the Shield to keep him from spiraling into despair much like his best friend that very likely has no memory of said friendship. It’s a silver lining to ghastly storm clouds that they _will_ become friends and that dark beginnings will have brighter futures.

Ignis removes the hand from Prompto’s ear, using it to stroke calming circles along the child’s back like before, only now he can feel every raise of skin like that of twisted braille punctuated by spine and ribs. He murmurs softly, tries to ignore every cut and scrape his fingers skim over, repeating like a broken record that he’s alright, he’s alright, he needn’t cry any longer.

He’s got him safe in his arms.

Ignis has him as his heart beats frantically like a hummingbird’s wings, gradually relaxing to an acceptable rate that’s still above average. He has him as his cries give in to exhaustion and adrenaline’s aftermath, child pathetically slumped against his ribcage and so very still that he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s asleep. He has him for a very long time just holding, soothing, and whispering vows of protection he fully intends to keep whether Prompto can understand them or not in his sleepy, fractured state.

He has him tighter when morbid curiosity has him peer over the boy’s head and shoulders to get a visual on the back he’d only mapped out like a mountain range, like the surface of stormy seas.

Lashes, welts, bruises, cuts -- all various levels of shape and severity.

His eyes don’t deceive him on the clear imprint of adult-sized fists and boot prints just from what he can tell from the dimly lit space.

Multiple sets.

Gods forbid he see all the stories the child’s petit body has to tell in broad daylight of the abuse inflicted for Six only knows how long.

Inflicted on  _Prompto_.

Sweet, cheery, humble, effortlessly optimistic Prompto with smiles as warm and bright as sunshine and guaranteed to light up a room. It seems like a lifetime ago he’d been a happy-go-lucky, carefree adolescent happily assisting him in the camp’s kitchen to prepare breakfast with cheeks glowing -- from the heat, surely, as had his own. Nothing could have ever led him to believe the young man had endured such inhumane cruelty until time magic’s unpredictable hand had whisked him back to such a painful past unimaginable, inconceivable. Though Ignis had always taken pride in his vast intellect, it’s moments such as this where he can only connect the dots with great horror, envisioning the worst scenarios with undeniable proof.

It’s very little wonder Gladio had lost his cool, feeling that anger rage within him once more -- the core of it brimming with sorrow though there’s nothing he could have done. It’s by that same sick twist of fate that he has the opportunity now, for as long as the magic lasts.

“Prompto? Are you awake?”

The boy inhales sharply, body so tense for being so small. It’s as though he’s been caught and while there’s not a thing he’s done wrong, he’ll still be found guilty.

“Is something the matter? It’s alright, little one, you can tell me.” Ignis assures gently, more softly than ever before, holding the child closer as if to keep his secret safe from the world should he wish to finally speak.

“ _...why...?_ ” Truth be told he quite honestly hadn’t expected a response, Prompto’s voice hoarse and near nonexistent. Terrified, yet trying so hard to remain steady despite anxious wobbling.

“‘Why’, what, Prompto?” He repeats carefully, hoping to draw another reply out but to no avail. He just mumbles under his breath, likely just sleepy nonsense, and so the Advisor determines that it can wait. Humming, he resumes lightly brushing the boy’s hair. The tension’s gone just like that, rendering Prompto practically boneless. He’s starting to cry again, and so Ignis stops.

A heart-wrenching sob breaks the child’s silence, a broken plea begging for him not to stop as though blurted out before Ignis catches the familiar tic of biting his lip to quiet himself before saying anything else stupid.

“Sshh, it’s more than alright. I’ll do this for as long as you wish, but first we’d best get you out of those clothes and into the clean ones Gladio found for you. You’ll feel much better, and I’ll be quick, too, I promise, little one.” Ignis coaxes, loathing the need for change interrupting the comforting contact he needs. Best to get it done and over with, like ripping a band-aid off a fatal wound.

 _“...wh-why...?_ ” Prompto whispers between sniffles, a single word asking a million questions that have nothing to do with changing clothes that Ignis is positive will break his heart.

For once in his life, he has no answer.


	5. Hate and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct learns there's a lot he didn't know about the best friend he loves like a brother, and he hates it.
> 
> He hates himself most of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a liiiittle longer than those previous, haha. Thank you for your love and support (250+ kudos and 2,000+ views aaaaahhh!!!)!!!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_“Prom? Hey, Prom! C’mon, wake up, buddy!” Noctis shakes his best friend’s shoulder as the blond thrashes about on the shared bed with a pained whimper, ensnared by the tangle of blankets. It takes a good five minutes more of jostling Prompto for him to finally awaken, appearing all the worse for wear as bloodshot blue blinks open, tears streaming freely down cheeks as pale as paper._

_“Don’ttakemeback.” He whispers frantically, curling up small on the mattress while shaking like a leaf in a dozen hurricanes and sweating just as profusely as though trapped in the harsh elements. “Don’tletthemhurtme.”_

_“Prom? Hey, you’re awake now. Was just a nightmare, yeah?” Noct tries to assure with little confidence even though this isn’t the first occurance, nor will it be the last with how often Prompto’s been spending the night since his parents are out of town. He stretches an arm out to drape across his shoulders, pulling best friend against him. “See? You’re good here with me, dude.”_

_Honestly, he knows he’s no good at any of this, way out of his comfort zone to try and soothe anyone, but this is for Prompto. There’s something special about his first and only friend that makes him want to try and succeed. Noct likes to think he’s improving as the blond goes from being tense to leaning heavily into the touch, melting as he rubs a hand up and down his arm._

_“You wanna talk about it?” He asks, and like always, Prompto refuses with a quiet, sincere apology that he needn’t give. Noct gets it._

Or at least, he thought he did.

Sitting alone at the edge of the Haven all hunched up with arms around his knees and palms digging into tightly shut eyelids, it turns out there’s a lot Noct didn’t ‘get’. Those insufferable, unrelenting nightmares were more than just fearful figments of an overactive imagination. Though his sneak peek had lasted but a few seconds after Gladio’s stern warning to let Ignis handle their panicking, puking, child-sized companion, he can perfectly recreate every exposed injury on that kid’s bare torso.

But that’s not just any kid wailing aloud at the Shield’s furious entry demanding who put those Six-awful scars there while Ignis tries to bring order.

It’s _Prompto_.

Someone **hurt** _Prompto_.

Hurt him so bad to the point of making him ‘frightened of every little thing like a beaten animal and clearly malnourished like one’, like Ignis had disclosed upon their return once the boy had been settled for a nap. Noct hadn’t believed it despite given reason to trust the Advisor’s sharp observations -- never doubted or led astray --, but it’s _Prompto._ The idea of anyone mistreating _Prompto_ to the point of having him act out like...like that beaten animal, had seemed impossible. Prompto is sunshine smiles and infectious laughter. He’s fun ideas with the best intentions that sometimes, _sometimes_ get them in a little trouble. He’s playfully dragging him to midnight releases of their favorite video games, geeking out over the new features. He’s an expert marksman that has his back with a cheeky whistle and cheer on the battlefield. He’s everything Noct’s ever needed in a friend that doesn’t care he’s the Prince of a powerful kingdom now a decimated, smoldering pile of death and ashes. He’s as much of a pillar of safety and support as his Advisor and Shield, but at Noct’s side because he _wants_ to be.

And on those nights where he’s gasping for air, open and vulnerable, Noct’s at his side because he _wants_ to be even if Prompto refuses to talk about what’s got him so scared shitless. He’s there for him, offering that same support back a hundredfold without any, any judgement when his friend hesitantly asks for the stuffed chocobo plush he’s got stowed away in his bag that he’s had since he was a baby. He’s there when Prompto then quietly requests through sniffles if they can just lie there while Noct rambles on about mundane politicians and their ridiculous outfits or whatever else he wants. They’re just nightmares, Noct gets it, whatever they’re about, they’re not real -- at least, most the time. There’s nights where their positions are reversed and he’s the one sweating over succeeding his ailing father before he’s ready -- is sure as hell he won’t ever be --, or he’s a child under attack by a vengeful Marilith intent on finishing the job. Whatever Prompto wouldn’t tell him with an eager plea to forget about it and drop the subject that he respectfully accepted and thus quickly moved on, wasn’t really real because Noct was so sure he knew everything about the blond with his heart on his sleeve and as open as a book. There wasn’t a secret he didn’t know about, like the helpless crush on his Advisor.

But they were.

Gods, they were.

They’re as real as those scars on pale skin. They’re as real as the harrowing conclusion that _someone_ did that to _Prompto_ as a _child_. They’re as real as the dark beast of guilt sinking its’ sharp claws in Noct’s ankle and plunging him under inescapable depths.

He caused this.

It’s all his fault that his best friend’s reliving a hell he never, ever would have imagined from someone as bright and optimistic as Prompto. If he hadn’t been so insistent that he join the Crownsguard, accompany him and Gladio and Ignis to Altissa -- if he’d just _seen_ that time monster’s attack coming, Prompto wouldn’t have--!

But he still would have and Noct knows it, because if his best and only friend in all of Eos is anything, it’s being selfless with no consideration for his own fragile defenses as their deadly sharpshooter. Prompto would’ve done it for him, time and time again, and for Ignis and Gladio, too. Noct loves all there is about him like a brother, but Six does he _hate_ that. He hates himself most of all, doing nothing but curling up and weeping while overhearing the confrontational exchanges in the tent grow suddenly silent save for Prompto’s muffled sobs.

The next he hears are the telltale footsteps of his Shield approaching.

“You gonna yell at me for crying, too?” Noct finds himself snapping but without any fire, voice on edge while scrubbing beneath an eye with the back of a hand. It’s a shit, instigative thing to say and he knows it, knows he doesn’t care but also does.

“No,” Is all Gladio says in a voice that doesn’t sound at all like Gladio. A hand rests on his shoulder, weight more comfort than anything. “c’mon. Let’s take a walk.”

He doesn’t want to lose that grounding presence, but shrugs that hand off in spite of conflicting emotions. Gladio doesn’t comment, just lets him do it as he rises to his feet and firmly crosses his arms.

“Fine. Lead the way, then.” It’s not much of an order, not like he has much of a choice in the matter since his Shield clearly has a location in mind to be wandering out in the dead of night. For being a Prince with the power to bend others to his will, he never gives orders anyway, unless it’s for one of his retainers to get some rest or take the day off. Usually he’s the one being told what to do regardless of how he feels.

Right now, he’s feeling a fucking lot and he hates it.

“Going to the Regalia. Got spare blankets there.” Gladio explains when he doesn’t have to, walking besides him instead of taking lead like usual. The flashlight on his jacket is clicked on. Noct leaves his off. “Figure the ki--Prompto, could use ‘em. Softer than the bags.”

“Could really use it after what you did.” He lashes out again, almost biting his own tongue before uttering the scathing remark. Gladio _does_ deserves shit for that, there’s no denying himself there, but not him acting like an impudent little brat. His Shield’s given him plenty of rightfully pissed lectures about that in the past.

But Gladio doesn’t, just nods in agreement as they trudge along. He must be five years old, dragging his feet as he is when the Regalia isn’t even that far from camp. Even he wasn’t this bad as a child -- not like anyone would reprimand royalty and especially the son of their King at that.

“Gonna spend the night in here, too. Away from him. He’ll feel safer if I’m not around.” The giant swordsman continues, keeping pace even though he’s gotta be slowing him down with the smaller than usual strides. “Prompto’s stressed out enough as is.”

“Good.” Noct quips, clenching his fists as his treacherous mouth opens again. “Y’know, because you really, really fucked up there.”

“Yeah, I did.” Gladio admits like there’s no greater truth. They’ve somehow reached the car without biting one another’s head off like the Prince was honestly expecting. Hoping for. Fearing. Any other time, the Shield would be using Noct’s childish behavior against him as an excuse to vent out his own frustrations and hand him his royal ass on a silver platter in the training arena. They don’t talk like this. It’s always communicating through the blade, with few words as sharp as steel and cutting to the bone.

But this Gladio isn’t angry, just steps aside as Noct fishes out the spare key from his pocket to open up the trunk. His hands are shaking too much to unlock it, and he huffs in anger that sounds suspiciously like a choked cry, close to just chucking the key and using his Engine Blade like a fucking can opener to --

But he wouldn’t.

It’s his late dad’s car.

That’s all Noct has left of him.

Suddenly that next exhale sounds more like a pathetic sniffle preceding a full-blown crying session.

He just. He _hates_ this.

He hates his dad for secretly knowing he was going to die with the whole godsdamn kingdom and sent him and his Crownsguard away with a smile. He _hates_ that he’s hating his father when Regis did everything he could for him, as a father first and as a King second whenever he could. He hates that someone _abused_ _Prompto_ and he hates himself for being at fault. He hates that time monster, as much as he shouldn’t towards an ethereal being. He hates Prompto’s parents because he’d been adopted as a baby, and so they must have been the ones that did...did _that_ to him despite the blond’s clear love for them in their frequent absences and how he’d broken down at news of Insomnia’s fall and refused to speak for a full two days. He hates that regardless of that, he’s glad of their deaths if that’s the case, and it _must be_. Somehow. He hates Gladio for scaring Prompto when he should’ve known better. He hates that Gladio is owning up to it and isn’t antagonizing him in return for his shitty attitude.

He hates _himself_ for taking all this out on his Shield, the only outlet he has for all the pent-up hatred and self-loathing his soul’s been bottling up under overwhelming pressure and expectations. He doesn’t _want_ to be like this. He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s being like this especially when he knows damn well it isn’t fair to Gladio who’s just _letting_ him act this way towards him.

“Look at me, Noctis.” He doesn’t remember when that bigger hand took his, easily swallowing it whole within his larger grasp and squeezing as the small piece of metal grows hot in his clenched fist. “Breathe.”

How the hell is he supposed to breathe when it feels like he’s suffocating all the damn time?

Noct isn’t given much time to think about it as next he knows, Gladio’s pulling him into an embrace. A _hug_ \-- and _that_ is what finally breaks him, taking a sharp inhale of his Shield’s earthy, leathery scent before that full-body cry erupts out of him.

“ _I’m sorry_.” He hiccups, unable to stop the flood of tears even if he possessed the power to. “ _I_ _-I didn’t-didn’t--”_

“I know you didn’t, Noct.” Gladio’s voice rumbles softly, bowing slightly to speak into his ear, carefully running a hand up and down his quivering back while mindful of the childhood scar. “You’re upset and everything’s pretty shitty right now. I know you don’t mean it. Not like I didn’t have it coming, but I know.”

“ _Someone hu-hurt Prom.”_ The hold on him tightens, unsure if it’s meant to be reassuring or residual anger leftover from the earlier incident. Either way, the soothing rumble of distant thunder thrums in his ear that he knows. “ _S’all my f-fault.”_

“Hey, now. You listen to me. This is _not_ your fault. None of this is _anyone’s_ fault except whoever-the-fuck put their hands on Blondie.” The Shield is firm, an edge of ferocity hinted in his tone at the unknown alleged abusers. “I know you’re upset. You can be upset at me--hell, I’m _willing_ to let you be and I’d be worried if you _weren’t_ , but when you go back to Prom and Iggy, you gotta reign it in, okay?”

“ _Like you didn’t_?” He can’t help that with a snort, an ugly, mucus-filled snort all over Gladio’s chest. He earns a large hand mussing up his hair for that one.

“Yeah, like I didn’t, Princess.” Gladio somberly agrees, moving that hand down from head to shoulder, prompting him to look up. “Listen. I’m not going to go around pretending I know shit about time magic versus the power of friendship or whatever, but the point is this--Prompto _needs_ you. _Ignis_ needs you. You gotta keep your cool, no matter what happens.”

Noct nods, finally taking that breath and wiping his face with the back of a hand. After that emotional episode, he can feel familiar self-consciousness creep in and take hold along with a much lighter feeling after that upsetting release.

“Y’know, for a sec there you almost sounded like a big brother or something.”

“Alright, pep talk over. Get those blankets and scram, you royal pain in the ass.” Lightly shoved away, Noct just rolls his eyes as his Shield does the same, finally unlocking the trunk to retrieve said items. “Here’s some more big brother advice for you while I’m at it. Turn on your fucking light. If I find your corpse in the morning, I’m kicking your ass so hard all those ancestors of yours will feel it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It’s as though everything is back to normal, tender moment forgotten as if to make things emotionally easier on him after getting drained. Noct really doesn’t say how much he appreciates him, as much of an ass-kicking ‘tough-love’r he is to keep him in line and his head on straight. Blankets bundled in hand, he pauses for a moment as the big guy opens the back door. “Uh, hey? Gladio?”

“Yeah? You’re not plannin’ on sleeping here, too, are you? This’ll kill your back, you know.”

“Wha? No, I,” Was that another way of knowing what he’s trying to say so he doesn’t have to? “I just wanted to say ‘thanks’. So, um. Thanks. I mean it.”

Gladio just grunts in that way of his that he translates as no need to give him any, waving him off before he can say anything really embarrassing like how he’s a really good big brother and how Noct wishes he was his for real.

He turns on his light.

 

* * *

 

Noct doesn’t enter the tent right away. Under the light of the moon, he taps into the Crystal’s magic to craft an elixir, potent healing item draining what little energy he has left but it’s worth it. He knows it won’t have any effect on older injuries, but maybe, _hopefully_ it will on those recent enough, as cruel as that sounds to have fresh wounds.

That’s not all he has in mind for the boy.

Taking a deep breath and waiting a moment, Noct taps his knuckles against the tent’s entrance.

“He’s sleeping. Do come in, but quietly.” Whispers Ignis, and so he does.

The child-sized Prompto is cradled in Iggy’s careful arms, clothes changed and lulled to sleep by the Advsor’s calming presence that Noct swears must be his own personal magic. His garments had been exchanged at some point while they were away as well, soiled clothing left in one of their laundry bags in the corner. Though Ignis looks relieved to see him, more so with soft blankets, he can’t ignore how ungodsly exhausted he looks. Rarely has he ever, ever seen Ignis so tired, always a calm, impassive poker face that’d smile on occasion or frown when deep in thought.

“Do you, um, want Ebony or anything?” Noct finds himself asking, voice kept low as not to disturb Prompto while setting the spare blankets down in the designated corner. “I know it’s late but looks like you could use one. Or, uh, some sleep.”

Ignis blinks, weary features softening with fondness.

“I do appreciate the offer, but I believe I’ll manage. Thank you, Noct.” He’s sincere, truly touched by the gesture as his Prince then wordessly hands over the elixir. His expression shifts into that of a grim one while glancing down at the young child sleeping peacefully without worry or care. Without fear. “I’m...afraid this will be ineffective due to age and time magic, but _do_ know I appreciate it. I know Prompto would, too.”

Noct bites his lip, takes what reassurance he can get from Advisor pocketing the elixir should it be needed. He hopes it won’t ever be, refocusing his mind on the third gift. Ignis watches him as he quietly crawls over to their bags, slowly zipping open a secondary pocket of Prompto’s and digging deep. He’d kept it hidden despite Noct’s assurances that none of the guys would care and even if they did, he’d swear them to secrecy by Royal decree.

The little chocobo plush is still as worn and well-loved as ever, once bright yellow plumes faded by the passage of time. Ignis certainly doesn’t appear to care, in fact, fondness once again blooming forth. A comforting possession is just what the traumatized child could really use. Prompto stirs as the man cautiously maneuvers him onto the nest of blankets, unleashing a whimper of noise at temporarily losing his warm touch. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded and dazed.

Have his eyes always been so violet?

“Hey, buddy. Look who I found.” Noct hums for his attention, trying not to read too much into the panic creeping in, slowed only by the sheer exhaustion still winning out. “It’s Leo. You remember Leo, yeah?”

He should. He’s had the plush since he was a baby, since he was adopted, there should be plenty of memories involving the stuffed animal for an abused kid.

Prompto looks like he’s never seen the thing in his life, doesn’t even take it from Ignis when Noct helplessly hands it over on the heartbreaking hypothesis he’s only acting oblivious because he doesn’t know his own best friend and therefore doesn’t trust him.

“It has been a very long, very stressful day.” Ignis reminds him, because it really has been for them all and especially for the child he manages to coax enough to lie down in the cocoon of soft sheets once more. Noct tries not to take it personally, tries taking a deep breath that’s even harder when midnight eyes spy black ink on the kid’s wrist when Advisor gingerly deposits the plush into scarred, scrawny arms. Prompto almost seems unsure of what to do with it, peering up with a desperate need for instruction.

 _Keep cool. He needs you. They_ **_need_ ** _you._ Noct swallows the impossible lump in his throat, locks away the dawning realization that he doesn’t know everything about Prompto like he so confidently thought he did. He doesn’t know _anything_ and what kind of best friend does that make him. _Did...Did he not trust me, or...?_

“...oct...? Noct?” Ignis calls from over his shoulder, eyebrow raised with concern as he cards a hand through Prompto’s hair, instantly calming the child to close his eyes and shift closer to the Advisor now laying next to him, tucked safely between him and wall. “I can tell what you’re thinking, and you needn’t dwell on it. Prompto’s trust in us runs unparalleled, as does his desire not to burden others with his troubles and ask for help when he truly needs it. You’ve done enough for just being his friend, as him to you.”  
  
“Why does he have to be so damn selfless?” It’s a rhetorical question that he doesn’t expect to be answered, scrubbing once again beneath a suspiciously wet eye.

“I suspect he wouldn’t be Prompto otherwise.”

“He’s an idiot, Specs.” Noct huffs, borderline on meaning it but only because he loves and cares about him so damn much that he can’t look at him anymore, sliding into his sleeping bag. “Prom’s a heart of freaking gold and too good for this world, big, selfless idiot.”

“Maybe so, but I suppose that’d make him _our_ idiot.”

“I’m gonna yell at him when he turns back.” He squeezes his eyes shut even though neither can see him cry. “Gonna give him the biggest, greatest hug of his damn life, and then yell. Gonna find out who hurt him, and fuck them up. Make them pay for everything they did.”

Ignis refrains from commenting on his foul language, holding his tongue from adding that he’d best get in line. Instead, he gets as comfortable as he can manage whilst soothing the boy from any ill dreams until sleep finally comes to claim him.

It never does for Noct.


	6. Failure to Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto has too many questions and decides the best answer is to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!

He never should have fallen back asleep.

There’s so many questions left unanswered, so many new experiences drastically differentiating with all Prompto’s ever known. The rigorous routine of the child trooper’s daily life has been completely compromised, and he has no memory in which fill in the gaps that expand further the more he tries to piece two together with said pieces nothing alike.

He shouldn’t have fallen asleep without at least getting an answer out of the Scientist despite having always being ignored and scoffed at in stupidity in the not-so-distant past. However, this particular glasses-wearing man is vastly unlike the rest -- not cruel, nor cold, nor a corrector to his frequently malfunctioning behavior. The task of keeping awake is once again proven impossible against the man’s gentle caresses to his hair and back -- the tender, steady motions an irresistible lull welcoming him to unconsciousness. It’s a stupid, selfish desire wanting to keep all this comfort for himself.

It never works that way. Sooner and never later will the pain return to make up for it hundredfold.

Prompto’s certainly earned it for all his failures.

That’s why he _has_ to leave.

He’s deserted superior officers and disobeyed their direct orders to come back although he later did and only to eat human food not permitted for troopers. The child has now on numerous occasions fallen asleep outside of his suffocatingly tight storage pod and without any regard for his surroundings for indeterminate amounts of time. A malfunction caused by invading officers previously discussing Prompto’s decommissioning has led him to waste the food never meant for him, and all the while surely disregarding whatever the strange Scientist had commanded he do while slowly, slowly approaching him. Touched him _gently_ with a wet towel patting at his mouth and chin. He’s even wasted water -- _twice_ \--, and treated as though made of delicate material which the poor excuse for a trooper honestly feels like -- too weak as usual to put up a useless sliver of resistance with little energy sapped dry from the futile fleeing of earlier.

The one order the boy managed to successfully succeed resulted in a verbal onslaught from the Guard’s explosive entry, stealing away all the tiny but powerful comforts his poor heart had desperately clung to as debilitating malfunctions returned at full force. But the hits he expected -- the breath-stealing suckerpunch followed by being beaten to a bloody pulp -- never came. Prompto had still wet himself, though, a pathetically childish reaction he’s yet to overcome and the subject of further ridicule and beatings. Bizarrely, none of that occurred and the Guard left without getting one hit in, unless snatching his branded wrist counted.

He’ll never know how he got away with that, sobbing too hard to tell as then the Scientist cleaned him up with the same tenderness, helping swap soiled clothes for a unrecognizable half-outfit that isn’t his black bodysuit. All the while the man provided that soft, simple yet effective comfort instead of reprimanding him when pleaded not to stop for even a second. At some unknown point he begrudgingly did, but soon gathered him back into those kind, warm arms. Gentle, soothing. Unyielding. The last the child remembers is crying from the overwhelming combination all for _him_ , and the glasses-wearing man humming with quiet words strung together. Not speaking, but letting the words just quietly, seamlessly flow into the next.

He shouldn’t have fallen asleep, unaware he peacefully had until suddenly released and losing all that soft, warm, and safe comfort. Though the child’s aching heart had known it all along of the tests’ inevitable return, still had a whimper escaped quivering lips.

It’s selfish, wanting just a little more time of just being _held_.

But bone-chilling metal never touches him, instead little body settled upon a pile of soft fabrics by the Scientist’s great care. At sluggish sight of the Lucian in their close quarters, arrival unknown, he begins to malfunction -- at least, he would have were it not for overwhelming exhaustion weighing as heavily as ever on his dazed mind, internal and external reactions unresponsive due to the soothing Scientist’s lingering touch. Perhaps that had been a test as well and none of the convincing comforts were real -- yet he’d pathetically, stupidly, selfishly fallen for them. Whatever torment the Lucian has planned for him, nothing will hurt more than that. The much older boy of dark hair and eyes like the night sky he’d only seen once without thick gray clouds is Niflheim’s sworn enemy, and therefore his. There will be no mercy shown from the foreign stranger he’s never personally met.

But the Lucian never so much as touches him, facial features and voice as smooth as the Scientist’s while offering the trooper a just-as-foreign stuffed animal he plainly should be familiar with for how insistent he is that the child take it. It’s paler than the color of his hair, soft eyes like his used to be, with taloned toes and rear-end splayed out like fingers on a hand. The much older boy calls it a ‘Leo’ while interrogating him like no one ever has before with friendly way of speaking as though personal and as though Prompto and the Leo have a history that like with everything else leading to this situation, he can’t recall.

He’s been interrogated before in simulations, drill instructors treating him even worse than the Guards, forced to spill secrets in exchange for the torture to stop or else for the severity to raise higher and higher and higher. Surrendering vital information has him beaten for betrayal. Refusing has him beaten until asked again in a vicious cycle that never ends. Troopers are expendable, sacrificial units, after all. Easily replaced with another and another and another.

No one will come to his rescue.

Yet no one lays a hand on him, not the Lucian and not the Scientist when offering the Leo in his stead. Prompto’s uncertain what to do with it when the latter eventually sets it in his arms as though at a loss. He knows that look. It’s a bad one, but he honest-to-Shiva doesn’t know what they’re expecting of him with unclear orders. In the end, it never matters whether or not he understands as long as he accomplishes whatever it is that they want from him.

But he doesn’t _know_ what it is, doesn’t know the function of the Leo in his arms except it is pleasant to hold and he secretly, selfishly wishes he could remember it. Maybe that is the Leo’s purpose, functioning far better at doing nothing and being held than he has his entire short life. Prompto knows better than to like the Leo, especially to show any emotional attachment that’ll result in permanent confiscation -- corrected by way of forcibly watching precious possession be destroyed and in severe cases by his own hand. The boy is fortunate the Scientist is paying him no mind while talking to the Lucian, taking the moment to sneakily squeeze the pale yellow animal against his chest where he lays. It’s far more pleasant to tightly embrace than simple holding.

 _Leo must be very, very good at being Leo_. The beyond tired child sleepily concludes as to why it must be so worn from clearly strenuous duty of flawless functionality. _Leo is best Leo._

Prompto hopes to have this Leo for a very long time.

The Scientist drapes some of the sheets all the way up to his shoulders, carding a hand through his messy hair while laying behind him. The trooper should be questioning it, he really should, but everything about this is a million times better than isolation in a tiny metal pod with just enough room to stand without reprieve, without any comfort whatsoever.

It has to be a test.

None of this is really real, but the pain will be when the results come in that he doesn’t know anything and failed everything.

That’s why he _has_ to leave.

No matter how soft and warm and safe everything is now. No matter how much he wants to just give in to the third best sleep of his life all from just _today_.

He can’t...can’t fall asleep...

So he doesn’t.

Or maybe he does at some point. The passage of time is impossible to tell in the barely lit space with nothing but the Scientist’s breathing and body heat snug against his back, an arm secure across the layers of sheets covering him as if to prevent his stupid escape plan. It feels nice by comparison of all the other times he’s been restrained by tight leather straps biting into his skin or pinned by immovable muscle leaving bruises for weeks after. The boy wonders if it’s meant to deter him. It easily could with how stupidly, earnestly receptive he’s shown himself to be to comfort thus far and melting under its touch like a child and not the ruthless magitek trooper he’s in training to be. Miserably failing to be.

Biting his lip, Prompto forces himself to focus, tasting the all-too-familiar tang of blood to fight off the persuasive call of sleep. This time he won’t come back. He won’t make that stupid mistake again despite experiencing nothing but kindness and not a single correction to malfunctions and being treated like -- like --

A _human_.

That’s what the test _must_ be. To determine if he’s still operable as a trooper.

Prompto knows damn well he isn't.

He’s failed, _he’s failed,_ **_he’s failed_**.

He’ll be decommissioned if he doesn’t leave _now_.

The Scientist mumbles an inquisitive sound as the child rolls over, breath catching in his throat. He’ll notice right away if he’s no longer beneath his arm, if there’s an empty space where he ought be. The idea then crosses his mind to the stuffed animal in his arms.

Leo will have to be left behind so that he may escape.

It’s selfish to want to keep it despite knowing it to be impossible. He should’ve known better than to get attached and in such a short time. It isn’t fair. It’s what a trooper would do without hesitation, but Prompto. Prompto doesn’t want to at _all._

But he has to.

So he does.

He somehow makes the swap without alerting the sleeping man, manages to slowly, slowly inch his way out from beneath warm sheets. Scientists are smart. It won’t take long to figure out the obvious switch and send the Guard to collect him from wherever he is. Prompto doesn’t know where, isn’t present in the small room except the Lucian laying in a bag of cloth like he previously had. He must get out now before he does.

The much older boy rolls over.

Freezing as though caught, the child’s gut twists as his breathing halts. His heart feels as though it could burst from his chest and give him away for how frantically it hammers against his ribs.

The Lucian goes still with an exhale.

Prompto is gone by the inhale.

 

* * *

 

Noct can’t sleep.

He tosses, he turns.

Nothing.

He closes his eyes and tunes into the ambiance of the significantly quieter tent without his Shield’s snoring resounding like a behemoth’s growl in the small space. Now it’s just the Advisor’s deep breathing over a much smaller Prompto’s much smaller breaths filling the unbearably empty silence. It’s ironic, all those times he’d complain about losing sleep to Gladio and now he literally is without it. Of course, he’s also missing having his best friend curled up at his side, a steady, comforting presence who’d octopus his way around him at some point during the night. That, Noct would never complain of, but that Prompto is gone for however temporary, magic’d into the small, scared, abused little kid safely hidden away within Iggy’s secure arms and against the wall.

He sincerely hopes he’s sleeping well and Ignis is, too, because he sure as hell isn’t.

Noct tries giving it another shot, but thinking of Prompto makes it futile. There’s no getting that scarred image of the boy out of his mind, biting his lip in both anguish and anger that someone had _hurt_ him -- and even when everything’s back to normal, it’ll still be as unforgettable. Unforgivable. Sighing in defeat, he slips out of his sleeping bag and rises to his feet, quietly making his way outside as not to wake sleeping companions in desperate need for rest.

Or rather, sleeping _companion_ unless there’s a child clone of his best friend they don’t know about as Noct rubs his eyes to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

Prompto stands right at the Haven’s edge, facing away from the him with little head tilted upwards towards the night sky filled with clouds blotting out constellations. All that remains clear is the full moon, small boy surely staring up at it as though enchanted by its heavenly glow. He can only imagine the pure look of literal childlike wonder upon his face, finally an expression that isn’t screaming with terror.

Noct takes a cautious step forward, willing himself to remain calm and collected. As innocent as this moment is, there must be a reason why Prompto’s snuck himself out without telling any of them. Maybe he’s hungry or thirsty -- he _did_ vomit earlier --, or has to use the great outdoors, or like himself he can’t find sleep. Whatever the matter, the Prince will see to it. It’s late, it’s dark out, it isn’t safe for him to be out by himself as he is. The last Noct wants to do is unintentionally frighten him away.

He takes another step, purposely making a tiny bit of noise as not to completely scare him by sneaking up as he is.

“Hey, Prom...?” Quietly calling out, he doesn’t get all the way through what he means to ask before the small blond jumps with a gasp, whipping around with a force that has him fall over on his behind. Noct can see every bit of despair flicker across his horrified face highlighted by the dying fire. Nothing in it reads that he knows his future best friend at all, shows no memory preserved against time magic of their close friendship built on years of trust and support.

All there is is fear.

The child scrambles to his feet before he can help him up, rooted to the spot by that unshakable display of anxious panic in its purest form. Before he can stop him, the boy bolts off the Haven’s protective runestones, vanishing into the dark of the night.

“PROMPTO!”


	7. Daemons in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct is in a race against time to find the child Prompto before the daemons do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a long chapter this time around. Thank you all for your support with your comments and kudos! They mean a ton as always and I do love to read how much I've made you feel :3
> 
> Thank you!!!

 

 

The Engine Blade is in Noct’s hand long enough to be pulled from the Armiger, warping right off the Haven before he has the sense to turn the flashlight clip on. There’s most definitely an alerted Ignis shouting his name when he materializes at the edge of the forest, but it doesn’t sound at all like his calm and always composed Advisor.

 _Afraid_.

But his Prince doesn’t have the time to explain what he must’ve figured out by a supposedly sleeping Prompto’s sudden absence from his side, doesn’t have a second to spare to stop for apologetic assurances. He runs while hastily brushing his thumb over the switch -- that and sparse moonlight providing the only light in dense groves -- feet catching on tree roots and arms thrashing against scratching branches catching in raven hair. Sprinting in the dark is dangerous as is screaming for his best friend like an obnoxious jackass with a deathwish that’ll come true with dangerous daemons lurking in every twist and turn. Noct can hear the distinctive popping and crackling of nightmarish hellspawns being summoned into existence through his boisterous, blind chase of a lost kid. Of _Prompto_.

Prompto’s out here because of _him_.

Prompto’ll _die_ because of _him_.

Noct launches the Engine Blade through a pack of ominously cackling Imps, harsh chortling a mockery to fraying nerves. He keeps on running even though he’d want nothing more than to tear them to shreds by his bare hands -- not out of anger but by whatever means necessary to protect Prompto and keep him safe without any regard for his own well-being. It sure as hell isn’t safe for the sole remaining heir of the Lucian throne to be recklessly ripping through daemon-infested woods, but Noct doesn’t care about that or how Ignis and Gladio will kill him over it if the daemons don’t. All that matters is Prompto. Though monsters of the dark might be a cakewalk compared to his abusers, he’s still a _kid_ , likely scared shitless and unable to defend himself against lethal beasts armed to the literal teeth.

Two warps and a dead sprint after taking on a practical god feeling forever ago -- not to mention the earlier search for a runaway Prompto -- has Noct thoroughly exhausted with impending stasis, but not about to slow down as his light bobs up and down with every quick limp of a step. There’s nothing but trees. So many godsdamn trees and bushes and he swears he sees Thunder Bombs floating idly a quarter mile away to his right. Cupping his hands, Noct yells for Prompto with all the air his aching lungs contain, not giving a single fuck if they hear him or any other daemons lurking nearby.

Gods. What if Prompto’s not even in this direction?

What if he’s too scared of him to answer?

What if he’s hurt and dying and _can’t_ _?_

It’s all Noct’s fault.

Pressing on, he ignores the stitch in his side, ignores the growing pain in his back. His bad leg. There’s no way he can warp again without serious repercussions that’ll really have Shield and Advisor wring his neck when they find him limping back into camp with Prompto because there’s no way in all Eos he’s returning empty-handed. Six, they’re most likely out on their own search party, Iggy’s last sight of his Prince dashing out into the dark like he had with the boy but a minute earlier. Hell, knowing his luck they’ve probably found him and are already back at the Haven awaiting his return, but that can’t be since his phone isn’t --

Isn’t on him.

He must’ve left it in the tent.

They’re gonna kill him, use a phoenix down, and then kill him again.

Stuff him full of vegetables if he isn’t that lucky.

Yet even so, Noct keeps moving forward.

Then he sees the Red Giant, massive daemon in a clearing with just-as-massive blade burning like an inferno from where it’s raised like a executioner’s axe poised to strike.

Prompto stands in the light.

The Engine Blade’s leaving his hand before he knows it, whole body warping ahead in but a disorientating blink that’d having him puking for all warring turmoil in his gut at the sight both a horror and a relief.

It’s not a perfect warp, but it gets him close enough before he’s tumbling back into reality,  colliding with a small, solid being that screams when he tightly tucks them against his chest with a crushing arm. The heat of the Red Giant’s blade is scathing over his head, singeing a few hairs as he just barely misses it by grace of gravity taking over into a sloppy dodge roll. Noct doesn’t waste a millisecond to so much as breathe as adrenaline courses through him like a trillion energy drinks as he lands back up on his feet, hitting the ground running with a screeching Prompto hooked under an arm.

They don’t make it very far, bad leg giving out when by some blessing of the Six has them reach the welcoming treeline first -- another blessing to a pile of rock surrounded by brush that he forces them beneath, poked and prodded by sharp little branches he takes the brunt of while pushing back against rock. Crouching on his knees and shutting off his light, Noct clamps his hand over Prompto’s mouth with the same arm that securely holds him despite desperate flailing, forcing the boy to relatively sit on his lap. The Engine Blade is clutched in his other, palm sweating as much as his entire body, night air chilling him all the way to his heart freezing over.

 _“Ssshh, Prom. S’okay, buddy_.” Noct dares to whisper into the darkness, heart thudding with each stomping approach of the unseeable Giant. The boy continues to squirm with all the strength his body can muster, whimpering cries muffled. “ _I’ve got you_.”

Prompto bites him, tiny teeth sinking into flesh save for few gaps. It takes all Noct has not to scream and retaliate, instead chomping on the inside of his cheek as he remains firm. Calm, like Gladio advised, keeping the hand there even as the blond releases him at the groaning sound of the Red Giant on the hunt.

A nearby tree thuds on the ground by the daemon’s doing, an earsplitting crash from the mostly silence.

Prompto quivers like a frightened little puppy in a severe thunderstorm, Prince able to feel every rapid, shallow breath from his nose atop his fingers, heartbeat frantic against his chest for being held so tight in the niche barely fitting them both. Tears streaming down like flooding rivers, the child’s lips twitch with quieted sobbing. Either he’s worn himself out or is too paralyzed with fear to make any louder sounds, Noct adjusts his hold, face nesting into the wild mess of blond.

 _“Not gonna let him get you.”_ His best friend vows into his ear as if he can hear him within all the panic, grip tensing on the blade as another tree meets its demise even closer than the last. _“Won’t let anything happen to you. Safe.”_

Prompto hiccups, a small gasp of noise slipping out as the daemon stalks heavily into range, sword setting their hiding place aglow through the thick foliage.

Noct holds his breath, forgoes the Engine Blade in favor of Prompto when the boy twists in his grasp not to get away but rather to hide his face against his chest, little hands squeezing in the space between their bodies to grip his jacket like a vice. Shushing him silently, he rubs circles along his trembling back, using his freed one to cradle the back of his head and tuck him beneath his chin.

 _“It’ll be okay_.” He breathes, reminisce of soothing a much older Prompto in his bed. There, such promises were easier to keep and his apartment bedroom in Insomnia much safer than perilously hiding from one of the nastiest daemons in the dead of night and without the energy to defend himself and child-sized best friend.

Damn, he really should’ve just kept the elixir on his person, yet even then he’d have saved it should Prompto have needed it. Noct’ll find a way to fight if it comes down it, ready to protect him to his dying breath even if this Prompto doesn’t know all he’s willing to sacrifice for his safety, doesn’t know how important he’ll be to Noctis and Noctis to him.

The Red Giant stands there for an eternity, sure to hear all the whispered promises uttered beneath the young man’s breath as the child weeps stains into his shirt. An eternity is a hell of a long time to just stay put like sitting ducks, one too winded to run and the duckling unpredictable. It turns out to be a good ten minutes or so Noct thinks, before the damn thing finally loses interest and sinks back into the hell from whence it came -- or wherever daemons come from, he doesn’t care as long as it doesn’t return any time soon.

Even with the threat gone, the Prince doesn’t make any move to crawl out of the uncomfortable position and back up to standing. He stays for an eternity more, back protesting against flat stone, just holding Prompto and idly carding a hand through his hair with the occasional hushing sound to crying that’s died down considerably. Sleeping would be easy like this, but he can’t give in. Not yet. There’s a safe Haven he’s gotta navigate them back to, to an Advisor and Shield that must be worried sick.

“Hey, Prom?” Noct murmurs softly, pulling away as little and as best he’s able while making sure the kid’s not looking directly into the light when he turns it back on. “Daemon’s all gone, but we gotta get a move on, okay? S’not safe here.”

Prompto doesn’t verbally answer, managing the tiniest of nods he feels more than sees.

“Okay so, we need to get out from under here first. Can you get out by yourself?”

The task is simple, but he burrows closer into his ribs instead and clips Noct’s chin, causing him to wince.

“Ssshh, it’s okay. Here, I’ll let you take the light to help you see.” Taking off the clip to fasten to the tank top’s strap, he catches the look on the boy’s face. It’s one akin of a child afraid of being separated from their parent, their sole source of comfort. “Hey, I’ll be right behind you, buddy. You’ll be okay, I promise.”

Prompto does as he’s told -- whether a good or bad thing -- and Noct painfully crawls out right after as promised, forcing himself to stand up relatively straight by aid of the Engine Blade like a cane.

Just like his dad.

Banishing the intrusive comparison, Noct easily figures his origin to backtrack, right back around through the small clearing and hopefully, straight and smooth sailing from there.

Now the hard part.

Prompto’s got the light and could easily run off again and him without the means to give chase. Noct honestly wouldn’t blame the kid. He’s had a hell of a day and night -- the latter far from over. Holding out his free hand, he offers it to the boy tilting his head in question.

“Do you trust me to get you back safe to camp?” He just stares, little teeth chewing his little bottom lip. “Ignis is there. Y’know, Ignis? I...think you like him? He’s nice to you, been looking after you? Or, uh, Leo’s waiting for you, too. You wanna get back to Leo, yeah?”

For a moment, Prompto stands there with Noct dumbly holding his hand out and at a loss because he really, really doesn’t want to force the kid into following him like some hostage. He’s been a victim enough.

“ _Wa-Wan’ Ignis_.” Is the tearful response he finally receives, hand ignored completely as he barrels into Noct’s bad leg, hugging tightly. Were it not for the Blade planted into the ground, he’d surely have fallen over. _“Pl-Please, please_.”

He tries not to take it personally. He can’t let it get to him that this little Prompto understandably prefers Ignis over him. Six, if their situations were reversed, he’s certain he’d be crying for Ignis, too, and he’d have the memories to justify that. But try as Noct might, it still _hurts_ more than all his physical pains combined like someone’s stabbed him a dozen times over.

“I know you do, buddy.” Noct somehow manages to say without any noticeable waver in his voice, setting a grounding hand on the child’s shoulder to keep both himself balanced as he raises the blade and as a comfort to him in hopes he won’t flee. “I’m gonna get you to Iggy if it’s the last thing I do.”

It isn’t that last thing Noct does, but it feels like it’ll be for a lifetime when he eventually picks up the blessedly familiar hum of runestones indicating the nearby Haven. His body’s about seized up and recollection of the journey a dissociative blur, but Prompto’s still at his side and unharmed for the most part, so that’s gotta count for something. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep one foot in front of the other, Engine Blade long gone and back in the Armiger to preserve his meager strength to just mindlessly shamble like the undead.

They must’ve reached camp at some point because next all he hears is Ignis or Gladio or maybe both shout for him before one or the other or both runs to his side. It must be the big guy, only able to tell because Prompto finally releases his leg to get away with a sharp cry before those large arms steady him from collapsing where he poorly stands without the boy’s support. His Shield is either berating or praising, Noct can’t really tell, but then he’s being pulled into a hug and he really doesn’t care which it was as long as Gladio doesn’t let go.

He doesn’t.

Noct remembers nothing after that.

 

* * *

 

To say Ignis had been out of sorts at young Prompto’s disappearance under his care and then to witness his Prince warp headfirst into the daemon-infested night, would be a vast understatement. He’d been strictly trained under the harshest of stressful predicaments to keep a cool and level head to find the best course of action and guide the future King accordingly. None of those courses could have prepared him for this. The least he’d managed to accomplish was a phone call to the Shield who’d picked up before the first ring had completed, the Advisor at a loss for speech to explain what had just occurred -- what he _let_ occur.

Gladio, to his credit and trained to handle just as chaotic situations, was soon at the Haven without breaking a sweat to the man pouring buckets and clutching an aged chocobo plush to his chest. If the swordsman didn’t know better, he’d have compared the distraught man to a parent in hysterics over a lost child -- child _ren_ \-- and observation not that far off. Noct wasn’t answering his phone -- reason why being left abandoned in the tent -- causing the strategist to set the plush down to summon his daggers by means to finally venture out with Shield at his side.

But Gladio wouldn’t let him go, stating it far too dangerous much to his countered arguments of the defenseless, _abused_ child and Insomnia’s sole surviving _heir to the throne_ being out there all on their own and --

 _Trust in Noct._ The Shield had reminded him with a strong hand gripping his shaking shoulder. _That’s what you’re always telling me_.

He wasn’t sure whether to be irritated at having his own words used against him, or to find solace in that by trusting Noct would everything work out.

Instead, he fretted over Prompto.

He hated his sleeping self to have fallen for the simplest trick in the book.

He forced himself to sit furthest from the fire, keeping an unwavering set of eyes from the treeline he’d seen Noct vanish into, and surely Prompto before him.

Hands that were emptied by his daggers’ return into the Armiger by Gladio’s coaxing hands, were preoccupied the plush on his lap and surely squeezing the stuffing out of the old battered thing.

Ignis trusted in Noct. He did with his whole being, more than one ever could with a single person. He loved him like the brother he never had -- like none of them did.

So he sat there, trusting and waiting as seconds ticked into minutes and dwindling down patience he never believed could be depleted. Then he took up pacing, running conversations in his mind and any warning signs he must’ve missed. At some point Gladio had offered a can of Ebony because in his honest words, he looked like shit. The only sleep he’d gotten was perhaps a half-hour or so, and the stressful reveal of a beloved companion’s abusive past and providing care to the traumatized child was wearing the Advisor thin -- though he’d never dare admit it. Prompto desperately needed his aid, and therefore would he provide only his best.

He should’ve suspected the possibility he’d run away, should’ve implemented a watch to prevent that.

Now Prompto’s out there and so is his first sworn duty, his sole purpose in life.

They both could be hurt and dying and unable to return.

It’s all Ignis’s fault.

He’s tempted to go against better judgement and take his chances in the forest when suddenly there’s a rustling noise from the treeline, Gladio shouting an alert even though his eyes hadn’t left for even a second.

Noct is in horrible shape, hunched over and clearly aching from head to toe by invisible pain that the Advisor can surmise as stasis amongst other ailments. Prompto clutches at his braced leg for hardly a minute more when Gladio rushes over to their aid, crying a sharp cry and sure to flee back into the night until watery violet finds Ignis atop the Haven stone. The man doesn’t know what kind of reaction to expect from him and is immensely surprised when the child bounds up the rock to his side. He’d be touched if he hadn’t been so worried sick.

“You mustn’t run off like that, Prompto.” Anger fueled by fear is the first of that comes out of his mouth, gripping tiny shoulders as he kneels before him. The change in the boy’s expression lit by the campfire is immediate, from hopeful to despair. Flinching and shrinking inwards. Awaiting to be punished for disobedience that isn’t truly so and Ignis cannot fault him for it. Prompto begins to cry, a blubbering mess of tears that’s soon smushed against his chest in the fiercest hug Ignis has ever given. “Oh no, no, don’t cry. I’m so relieved you’re safe. I- _We_ were so worried about you, Prompto.”

He doesn’t stop sobbing even as his little legs give out beneath him and Ignis lifts him securely into his arms, rocking gently like one would for an upset infant.

“You’re safe here, I promise, little one. No one will hurt you. You’re safe. You don’t have to run away.”

 _“Wh-Why_...?” The million questions condensed into a single word is hiccuped between gasps for air, and now does Ignis have an answer even if the child can’t possibly comprehend it.

“Because you are loved.” Ignis speaks from the bottom of his heart, adjusting to tenderly stroke blond locks as he cries and cries until there’s nothing more to give but in to sleep. “You are so, so very loved, Prompto Argentum.”

Carefully, he scoops up Leo and settles the plush in the boy’s listless arms before traversing in the tent where Gladio’s got an unconscious Noct situated on both their sleeping bags, holding the Prince as he pitifully sleeps curled in his Shield’s protective embrace. While Ignis trusts the swordsman to have tended to their ward’s needs, he’s no doubt going to be in great pain come morning.

Ignis will gladly allow him to sleep in for as long as he likes.

“Bet all my gil no one’s ever told him he’s loved ‘til now.” Gladio laments without prompting. “Gonna have to keep telling him, too. Kid needs to hear it.”

“We could all use a reminder every now and again, one I would never grow tired of repeating to those in need of it.” The Advisor agrees as does the gentle giant with a grunt, adding to the sentiment as he once again swaddles Prompto and Leo within the safe haven of blankets before laying down at his back.

Though his mind and body both yearn for sleep, he knows it won’t be easy coming. Gladio is snoring soon enough, his returned presence welcomed to stifling silence and while always well-intending, ought to discourage any future breakouts where he sleeps by the entrance.

 _“You’re loved, you’re loved_.” Ignis murmurs like a mantra in time with each inhale and exhale, circling the child’s backside with a palm along his spine. “ _So very loved_.”

Perhaps in his dreams will Prompto believe it.


	8. First Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first morning with little Prompto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While consulting my "outline" and writing this chapter, I quickly came to the realization that this fic is gonna get *a lot* longer than initially planned.
> 
> Oh boy.
> 
> Thank you for all of your support as we buckle in for this roadtrip of a journey :)

 

 

When Ignis wakes, he’s immediately aware of an abnormal presence sprawled across his torso with four little limbs latched around like a burrowing bug. Perplexed eyes opening with a raised brow, he’s greeted by the sight of a small blond child fast asleep with their head resting over his heart, chocobo plush hooked beneath scrawny right elbow. So all of yesterday evening wasn’t a horrible dream then, the little boy clinging to him like a second skin being none other than Prompto. Sleeping peacefully as if but an ordinary occurrence by an ordinary child, the man can’t help but feel at ease seeing that expression free of any pain and misery.

There’s a whole mental list of preparations the Advisor ought to be doing for the day now that he’s awake, such as getting breakfast ready and checking over their many stocks of the food and monetary variety as well as figuring out how they’re to care for child-sized ally. Instead he simply lies there, having not the heart to disturb Prompto’s well-needed rest. Ignis adjusts ever carefully, craning to peer over blond tufts to their other thankfully asleep companions. Gladio still holds Noct from what he can tell, Prince nearly hidden by protective muscle curled around him. He must check in on him later, concern and guilt eating away at his conscience over how much their charge had been hurting upon their late return.

Prompto’s traumatic past and present actions have taken their toll on them all, and Ignis has the irrefutable notion that it’ll only get worse before getting better -- if it ever will. Who knows how many grains of sand the finite glass of time magic contains, slipping away piece by piece until their treasured friend is freed from its spell. However long they have, Ignis knows one thing for certain. The scars will always remain, even if faded over the years to but distant memories of a time never truly forgotten. That fact is as clear as the black bars of ink branded on pale skin. Lifting a finger, the Advisor traces over the numerical designation as if but an item to be sold at the convenience store. As if but proof of someone’s property.

He’s just a _child_.

By the time Ignis reaches the end, he’s shaking.

Prompto whimpers in his sleep, clenching around the trembling warmth beneath him with a worrying sound that has the man cease and move the hand to lay upon the boy’s back.

“ _Sshh, little one. You’re safe_.”

It’s downright heartbreaking how starved the child is for touch that it takes only but this and a few kind words to bring immense relief as though severely dehydrated and grateful for a single droplet of water. Ignis would make it rain for him if he could -- not to say he couldn’t, but as he’d grimly informed the others, there is no easy fix to cancel out years of childhood abuse as though it’d never happened. It’d take time and trust. Patience. Understanding that Prompto won’t understand that their intentions were pure and they meant him no harm. That although Ignis had told the crying and thoroughly exhausted young Prompto that they loved him, he likely hadn’t understood the foreign concept and even if he did, why to have it directed at him when in his mind he’d done nothing to deserve it.

It certainly would explain his lack of confidence and self-worth in his young adult years, such insecurities hidden behind a mask of bright smiles and overly optimistic banter. Of course, the Advisor had seen through it, but yet again had he never imagined the source to be...be _this_. For every one thing he knows, there’s a hundred that he doesn’t. Ignis had done his research on Prompto Argentum when it had become clear that he and Noct were becoming more than just classmates, the two hanging out and spending the nights together more often than not. The records had stated he’d been adopted by the Argentums as a newborn birthed in a war-torn Niflheim by parents that wished him a better life. Supposedly he’d been homeschooled until his early teens and then transferred to pursue a public education. His guardians held important positions in Insomnia’s top industries, and while always busy and often away on conferences, they’d adored their son like he was their own.

In short, both he and Noctis had plenty in common, leaving little wonder to how they clicked so easily into a close friendship. Ignis welcomed it, and especially the polite Prompto’s pleasant company whenever he was over, as frequent as it was as though he belonged there as much as Noctis himself. Now the Advisor wonders just how many signs he’d missed, if things weren’t as happy in that empty home as he’d been led to believe. He wonders if he should feel the grief he’d had over his parents sure demise, or twisted satisfaction of justice served.

The only way to find the answer would be to ask this Prompto himself.

Well, he _could_ ask, or he could focus his efforts on ensuring they treat the child in desperate need of their utmost care and attention after suffering such heinous crimes.

The choice is simple, lightly ruffling his hair with heart aching at how the boy sleepily nuzzles closer for more.

It’s at that moment when his phone’s alarm goes off.

Ignis recognizes the signs of a panic attack when he sees them, especially as blatantly obvious as Prompto’s reaction to the simple ringtone selected to rouse only himself. Perhaps it’d been the sound, or the shock of waking with a stranger, or something else entirely that’s triggered the child into an anxious plight with a strangled yelp. Whatever the case, the Advisor silences it immediately before sitting up and gathering him into his arms, helping free the thrashing boy from the entanglement of blankets. Though his eyes had snapped open upon waking, they’re now clamped tight with tears trickling down pale cheeks. Prompto’s gone rigid in his hold, staggered breaths quick and shallow.

Ignis gently encircles his right wrist with careful fingers, guiding the boy’s palm to rest flat over his ribcage.

“Prompto, can you hear me?” The child shudders in response, red-rimmed violet peeking open just a crack. Nothing reads recognition, panic overriding all else. He shifts to maneuver his other hand to stroke disheveled blond. There’s a spark at that before those glistening orbs slip shut, tiny frame relaxing greatly at both reassuring word and touch. “It’s all gone. I promise you’re safe, little one, but I need your help. I need you to follow my breathing. Can you do that for me, Prompto?”  

He doesn’t answer, either unable to provide a verbal reply just yet or too timid to, Ignis can neither tell nor fault him. However, just like his young adult self and just like with the soiled garments, the child is desperate to please. Worryingly so. The Advisor has to calmly keep count from one to five, each slow and steady inhale holding for a beat before exhaling for another five. It takes time, but gradually does Prompto manage to accomplish matching his rate for the most part. There’s no doubt that frequent praise has much to do with it.

Casting a glance around the tent for the first time since the attack, Ignis’s gaze is met with Gladio’s, the Shield rising as quietly as possible for one his size. Noct, surprisingly or perhaps not, remains undisturbed.

“ _The alarm?_ ” The swordsman mouths more than speaks, withdrawing his phone to presumably turn any off when Ignis eventually gives a nod of his head. He checks Noct’s as well just to be sure, sleepy Prince notorious for setting his on snooze for hours on end. “ _Kid gonna be okay?”_

Understandably, the panic attack has sapped what little strength he’d managed to recover whilst resting, becoming rather boneless in his arms. Like with Noct, he suspects he’ll be spending much of the day asleep which while he doesn’t mind, is a rise for concern. They both need to eat, and especially the boy starved for a nutritious meal -- the first and last time resulting in wearing much of it. Retrieving his phone without rousing a dozing Prompto, he nods again before sending a text.

 _“How is Noct?”_ The young man in question is no more than raven tufts sticking out from within the confines of his sleeping bag. _“I’ve no excuse for not--”_

Gladio stops reading, shooting his lifelong friend a look that won’t accept needless apologies. The expression he bears is worn far beyond his years, and he imagines himself sharing such an aged face.

“ _You’ll burn yourself out looking after the both of them, Ignis. Don’t forget it’s my job to be protecting you three, too.”_ The Shield reminds him, advising the Advisor for a change. There’s no edge laced within the texts, only concern. “ _And yeah, Noct’ll be...”_

Two pairs of eyes land on their passed-out Prince.

“ _He’ll be hurting for awhile,”_ Gladio admits, no need for specifics when Ignis knows full-well how much his fragile body and sensitive heart weep with bottled anguish, entrusted companions his sole witnesses to his true feelings. _“But he’s got me to lean on and I ain’t letting him fall.”_

Ignis puts on a weak smile despite himself.

“ _Thank you, Gladiolus._ ” He whispers into the quiet of the tent, unable to view the Shield’s facial features as he turns around before the man can catch it, waving the back of his hand as though it’s no big deal and his thanks unnecessary for just doing his duty.

For ‘just doing his duty’, he certainly puts his large heart to work in ensuring their safety and peace of mind.

“ _I_ _’ll start on the breakfast prep_ _for ya, then scram before Blondie really wakes up. Rather not test how many panic attacks he’s got left in him.”_

Though Ignis doesn’t thank him aloud, he still means it from the bottom of his heart. He needn’t say it anyway since Gladio knows him well enough, motioning with a gesture that once again reads that it’s nothing. It must pain him to _do_ nothing, being able to only assist Prompto indirectly and without the boy seeing him.

The Advisor hopes to change that, should the right opportunity arise.

At the Shield’s departure on the quest of breakfast, he’s left alone once again with the child -- and Noct, the Prince curling in on himself with a suspiciously wet mutter of best friend’s name.

“He’s right here and safe thanks to you, Noct.” Ignis murmurs softly, just barely above a whisper. Whether or not he heard him, he rolls over with a deep sigh. Turning his attention back over to Prompto, he retains his surprise at two curious violet gems staring up at him. “Ah, good morning. How are you feeling, Prompto?”

He’s clearly lost, little head pivoting around as though seeing the inside of the tent for the first time -- at least more awake. His hand clutches at Iggy’s bicep, vision landing on the lump that’s his future best friend.

“Sshh, don’t fret, little one. You’re very safe here. That’s Noct, he’s just asleep right now. He brought you back here to me last night when you got...lost.” He explains slowly and gently, scrutinizing Prompto’s every minuscule movement. Reaching over, he picks up the abandoned plush as an offering, hoping it’ll help jog his disjointed memory and fragile state. “Here we are. This is Leo if you remember. Noct thought you might like him. He’s a friend, just like Noct is.”

Unlike the first introduction of hesitation and uncertainty, this time the child squeezes it tightly as though it could very well vanish. Ignis watches, taking note of the great comfort the stuffed chocobo provides as Prompto buries his face against the side of Leo’s paled yellow head, inhaling deeply before sighing. He waits until he’s completely calmed down, idly running circles along his back.

“Can you help me again, little one?”

Prompto freezes, peering up with a blink. Carding the hand up into his hair has him thaw like winter into spring.

“Can you tell me what it was that upset you earlier? I’m very sorry that you were frightened and so I’d like to prevent it in the future.” He may as well have asked the meaning of life for how bewildered the child looks at him. There’s so many layers of sheer confusion and disbelief conflicting in his reflection, so much that deciphering could take a lifetime. “I...imagine there’s quite a lot you don’t understand with everything that’s happened to you, but that’s to be expected. You are free to ask whatever you wish, little one. It’s okay to ask. I’m happy to answer all of your questions.”

For a long moment he just averts his eyes, chewing on whittled bottom lip and fidgeting with one of the bird’s soft wings with feign interest. Ignis waits patiently for an answer that may never come, makes no move to force the boy into speaking until he’s ready to do so.

“ _But I’m not...um, what does...are you..._ ” He’s surprised to hear the little voice speak, more hoarse squeaking from sleep and crying. Careful not to interrupt, the Advisor stretches to grab his canteen. Prompto stumbles over his words a moment more before biting down in defeat. He likely has as many questions as the man, and without the courage to ask. He very well was never allowed _to_ ask.

“It’s alright, Prompto.” Ignis assures, letting it be known that he truly appreciates any and all effort the child makes. “Here, why don’t you have some water? Slowly, remember. That’s it.”

Drinking more than he figured he would, the man makes a mental note to make sure he stays hydrated. At the rumbling of tiny tummy, he adds ‘fed’ with a tiny smile as the boy grows flustered with embarrassment.

“It’s alright, little one. How about I see to getting you something to eat, hm?” He can’t ignore the sheer wonder at the prospect of food sparkling in those eyes, overshadowed soon by that same uncertainty. Recollecting yesterday’s curry, he’s reminded of the same boy consuming it wildly like a feral animal licking the bowl clean. It takes all he has not to form fists, willing himself to quell righteous fury broiling at whoever’s starved the child of every basic need.

Starved _Prompto_.

 _Scarred Prompto_.

Banishing the downward spiral of dark thoughts, Ignis sends the Shield a quick warning text before resuming his focus on the extremely famished little boy back to chewing on his lip. He’s getting the impression it’s more than just a nervous tic and moves up on one knee before him, prompting the blond to look up at the Advisor.

“Will I have your company for breakfast? I’m certain we can come up with a meal suitable for your sensitive stomach.” Ignis asks kindly, extending his hand in offering with a warm smile. As much as his devoted caretaker side wants to whisk him away to the kitchens and stuff him full of healthy food, he must provide choice and adjust accordingly. “Of course, you’re also more than welcome to stay here and rest while I finish cooking what Gladio’s prepared for us. No matter your preference, I promise my feelings won’t be hurt.”

Little fingers brush over his open hand, palm sliding over palm.

Prompto is just so small, so precious and trusting -- everything he would have previously presumed him to be as a child. Not for the first time and certainly not for the last can he not fathom why anyone would intentionally corrupt an innocence as pure as sunshine. Though Gladio’s duty is to shield them from harm with their Prince obviously as primary, Ignis cannot deny the urge he feels to protect the child with every fiber in his entire being.

Hand in hand, they leave the tent together.


	9. Safe Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto finds himself in a safe haven of Ignis's lap and the human meal called 'breakfast'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again and always for your support and comments! It means so much!!
> 
> This story has reached over 5,000 hits and 500 kudos! I could cry ;;;

 

 

He’s gone and fallen asleep again. At least, that’s what Prompto thinks this is, sitting on the rocky edge of the campsite that doesn’t hurt. The night air isn’t chilly on his skin either, everything nice and warm as though at the fire but he’s not. All there is is him and the big round light in the sky.

Oh, and the Scientist.

The... _Ignis_.

Now that he thinks about it, he’s sitting on the Scient--on _Ignis’s_ lap, which must be why the ground isn’t hard on his behind since he’s on his lap. That’s why he’s warm, because he’s got his arms around him, and he’s got his own little arms around the Leo. It’s really nice. Prompto wonders if the Lucian brought him here. He said he would. No one’s ever done anything for him before. Nothing nice. He’s only had things done _to_ him that he deserved. Nothing nice. But the Lucian said he would and he did. And this, this is really nice.

He can kinda make out what the Scie-- _Ignis_ says, words as soft and gentle as the hand he runs along his hair and back. The Sc- _Ignis_ tells him he’s safe and loved. ‘Safe’ he understands, but the latter is lost on him. He’s not ever allowed to ask questions or for anything, so he doesn’t and hopes the-- _Ignis_ won’t later test him on the term he doesn’t know but applies to him now. Safe and _loved_.

Everything is soft, warm, safe.

He’s loved, too, whatever that means. Prompto looks up at the glowing light surrounded by darkness. He didn’t know there could be light like this. It’s nice. Ignis ruffles his hair and he leans back to get as much contact as he can.

An alarm sounds out of nowhere, banishing him from the tranquil setting and sending him freefalling into inescapable darkness.

Everything is harsh, cold, cruel.

Violet eyes snap open as fast as his hands pressing against what isn’t the frigid walls of his storage pod, but at soft fabric he’s tangled in. Looking up, his frightful gaze locks briefly with the Scientist he’d clearly fallen asleep on, the glasses-wearing man blindly reaching for the nearby source of the alarm revealed as a device that could be anything. Could do anything. Prompto yelps before he can stop himself, frustrated tears stinging the corners of his eyes at his inability to free himself and stand at attention like the alarm commands although different than those previous.

He tries and fails and tries and fails.

The alarm is shut off, but he doesn’t hear it. Doesn’t hear anything but static and high-pitched hysterics.

He tries and fails and tries and fails.

He’s malfunctioning like never before.

He’ll be hurt like never before.

He can’t _breathe_.

He tries and fails and tries and fails.

Arms envelop him, cradle him against warmth as one moves to free his trapped legs before resuming holding. He doesn’t know who it is, doesn’t open his eyes at the unknown’s hand taking his branded wrist, only knows better than to resist corrections after failing such a simple drill. His cries are as meaningless as his malfunctioning, as useless as his poor breathing. Unyielding panic reigns over his entire body, unrelentless even as his palm’s set against solid warmth that steadily rises and falls. A voice speaks to him, accent soft in ears expecting furious snarls of orders he’s unable to complete with no control over himself. Whole being trembling, he at least manages to open his eyes just a little. At first there’s no memory whatsoever of the Scientist stranger delicately cradling him until the glasses-wearing man cards a hand through his hair that rekindles recollection, dying embers nurtured to bring warmth back within.

 _Ignis_.

Prompto can’t explain the immense relief that grounds him at knowing Ignis has him even as his mind floats free from his body, tethered only by the gentle man firmly keeping his fractured self together. Ignis is promising his safety, asking for _his help_ \-- a Scientist requesting assistance from a lowly malfunctioning trooper such as _himself_ \-- in matching their breathing patterns.

But Prompto _can’t_.

He wants to so badly for Ignis, but he _can’t_.

At least, not right away. Every debilitating malfunction has resulted in painful corrections for not complying instantaneously in the not-so-distant past, but Ignis does no such thing. All he does is hold him, slowly counting quietly to five and back while whispering encouragement between numbers as he struggles to follow Ignis’s steady breathing like ordered. Being told he’s doing a good job is...nice. No one’s ever told him so before and it makes him want to be better, to really deserve such kind words.

Prompto only wishes he could stay awake to hear more, helplessly lulled into a peaceful doze by the very same -- or so he thinks, dreamlessly drifting for an indeterminate amount of time. In any other instance it’d be worrisome, but he’s just so sleepy and feels so safe that he can’t help it. It’s just so...so nice. It’s even nicer when his eyes flutter open to see Ignis still holding him close, unable to do much more in his fatigued state than to stare. The man’s expression is soft, murmuring too quietly for the tired little boy to understand, but it’s comforting all the same just like in his dream -- maybe this is a dream, too. He hopes he won’t ever wake again if that’s the case. Ignis glances down at him, subtle surprise flickering in green before disappearing into a soft smile in greeting and question of how he feels.

This is no dream.

This is _real_.

Everything that happened really, really happened. It’s too much information at once, recollection a blur between reality and fiction. Malfunction. Prompto’s going to malfunction again, small hand desperately clutching to Ignis’s arm while looking around the strangely-disfigured room he doesn’t quite recognize, nor the person-shaped bag on the ground. Ignis is wise just like the highly intelligent Scientists, he must be aware of how close the faulty trooper is to malfunctioning over his own stupidity and harmlessly corrects him by way of actually taking the time to explain so that he understands. No one’s ever done that for him before either and soon the impending threat of a malfunction is neutralized just like that.

Ignis calmly informs him that he’s safe in this place -- though if Prompto’s honest with himself, the location matters not as long as Ignis is there with him -- and that the person-shaped bag does contain a person, and from what the blond can surmise is the Lucian that gave him the Leo, the same Lucian who kept him safe from the monstrous daemon. It was this Lucian, Niflheim’s sworn enemy and therefore his, that vowed he’d get him safely back to Ignis like he hadn’t ran away from them in the first place, and he _did_.

 _Noct_ did.

Prompto doesn’t understand. As a magitek-trooper-in-training, he’s not meant to understand what he doesn’t need to know -- he’s just meant to follow orders without question. But he’s bad at following orders and what little he did know and understand has been rendered null and void, replaced by entirely new concepts that he just. Doesn’t understand. He has questions, too, so many questions that even they have questions, but he’s not permitted to ask. Asking never brings him answers, only pain -- at least it used to. Everything’s changed so drastically that Prompto doesn’t know what to think anymore. Ignis had said he wouldn’t be hurt, but his head just hurts so much and --

Leo is offered for him to hold and suddenly none of that matters, relief overriding all else to be reunited with the stuffed animal he was certain he’d never see again. The Leo is very good at what it does, pleasant as ever to clutch tightly and take in the plush’s soothing, oddly nostalgic scent. Comfort comes easy with the soft, worn object, almost as much as Ignis rubbing his hand in a circular motion along his spine. Exhaling a great sigh, Prompto is positive he could fall asleep like this in the safety of the man’s arms and with Leo in his -- that is, until Ignis requests his aid once again, speaking to him in a way that no Scientist ever has.

He’s _apologizing_.

Scientists _never_ apologize. No one _ever_ apologizes except himself, stumbling over the words in sheer panic that don’t ever matter as he’s beaten into the thin mat for failing the training exercise he promised he wouldn’t screw up again. There’s no way this is really happening. There’s just. Just no way that Ignis could have done anything wrong like Prompto does all the time and _apologize_ for it, asking what it was so it won’t happen again. So that the child soldier won’t malfunction again. Prompto just stares incredulously, wide-eyed and uncertain he’d heard that right even as he repeats it over and over in his head. None of it makes any sense, not with everything he’s ever known and especially Ignis who isn’t at all like a Scientist -- but if he’s not a Scientist then Prompto doesn’t know who else he could be. There’s only five kinds of people that exist. Scientists, Guards, Lucians, Drill Instructors, and MTs like himself -- except his kind doesn’t classify as ‘people’ because they aren’t human. Prompto’s not...not human. He isn’t ‘a person’. That’s what he and the rest of the clones that share his face have been told and tested on, except Ignis and the Lu-- _Noct_ haven’t treated him like an MT at all. Prompto doesn’t understand.

Ignis is right.

There’s so much that he doesn’t understand, so much so that he can’t believe he’s being granted permission to ask questions to which Ignis insists he’s happy to answer.

It’s...It’s a lot to ask of the small child wanting no more than to make the glasses-wearing man happy, nibbling on his sore bottom lip while toying with one of Leo’s soft yellow appendages.

“ _But I’m not_ ...” _Permitted to ask questions._

“ _Um, what does..._ ” _’Loved_ ’ _mean_?

“ _Are you..._ ” _A Scientist_?

Prompto can’t do it, can’t even ask one simple question out of the hundreds that swarm within. It’s too much. It _shouldn’t_ be too much, but it is. Ignis should be angry with him, but he isn’t at all -- he’s appreciative that he tried even though he failed, even giving him water to quench his aching throat that he thankfully doesn’t spill this time. The relief for that small accomplishment is short-lived, however, at his pitiful stomach letting its hungering presence be known. Where he’d always been ridiculed or ignored when pathetically rumbling aloud for the rations he’d been denied, Ignis simply smiles with an offer of getting him something to eat. Shiva, he’s so hungry now that he thinks about it, reminiscing to the very first meal he’d scarfed down in too long a time -- the _human_ meal.

Ignis can’t...can’t really mean feeding him _human_ food, can he? Shiva, how he’d give anything for more despite not being permitted, chewing on his bottom lip in hopes to stave off starvation because there’s no way he’ll be receiving anything but rations -- non-moldy ones if he’s lucky.

He must be luckier than that when Ignis inquires if he’ll have his company for ‘breakfast’, offering his hand with a warm smile that holds no trace of malice. No promise of pain. Either he can go with the glasses-wearing man and promise of food, or he can stay and rest until he is finished ‘cooking’.

Prompto wants...wants to stay with Ignis. He feels safe with Ignis.

He... _trusts_ Ignis.

His tiny hand easily slips atop the larger palm, longer fingers gently curling over and bringing warmth to poor circulation. Holding Leo close to his chest, Prompto stands carefully with Ignis’s help, taking the next few steps slow and quiet as not to wake Noct. He must be very tired to be sleeping so much because of him. Prompto wonders if he’ll be angry when he wakes up, if he’ll take Leo back as a sort of correction. The boy hopes not, unsure of which he’d prefer when both would hurt dearly.

He thinks he trusts the Lucian, too.

 

* * *

 

The world outside their little tent is overcast, thick grey clouds hanging heavily with no signs of leaving any time soon. Withdrawing phone from pocket, Ignis checks the weather forecast with a frown of tomorrow’s prediction of rain before diverting his attention back to the small boy practically melded onto his left leg for how close he matches each shortened stride. Prompto’s tiny button nose is tilted upwards and towards the camp’s kitchen, twitching away at what Gladio’s left for the chef to finish up via text.

There’s toast prepared on a plate, eggs scrambled in a covered bowl, and sausage prepared to be cooked. A saucepan of water boils on the front burner with a serving of oats set aside, a bland breakfast likely meant for those with queasy stomachs. Foraging through their supply of fresh fruit, Ignis finds what he’s looking for in a bunch of bananas, apples, and an orange. Moving on to the cooler with child one with his shadow, he digs out a carton of milk along with a can of Ebony soon accompanied by a second. He feels he’ll be needing it.

“Here, milk for you to drink.” Sticking the straw inside, Ignis presents the beverage for Prompto, small child securing Leo with an elbow to free a hand to drink with the other gripping the man’s pantleg. He takes a tiny sip, evident the first he’s had it before taking another. A third.

His eyes are wet, tearful little blond sniffling while savoring each drop.

“Oh, sweet Prompto.” Ignis is kneeling before he knows it with a handkerchief procured from pocket. The Advisor delicately wipes beneath his eyes, blinking back the moisture collecting from his own as he waits for Prompto to finish before setting the emptied carton aside to set his hands upon shaking shoulders. “Everything will be alright now, darling little one. I give you my word that it will be. I know this is all very difficult for you to believe, and that’s alright, but I promise you that you will never, ever go thirsty or hungry here.”

It’s not just the vow of a devoted caretaker, but of a dear friend that easily pulls the boy into an embrace, task made simple by the same little one simultaneously going in for a hug. Ignis lifts him and Leo up off the ground, settling them both securely against his torso with an arm. It’s a balancing act for sure, but not a challenge for the determined acrobatic Advisor intent on not letting the touch-starved child go a second deprived of simple comfort as well as any proper nourishment whatsoever. He offers a piece of toast for Prompto to munch on while stirring oats into the boiling water, cutting bananas and apples into bite-sized slices for a healthy addition. The blond seems to like them when given samples, and so he folds them in. Ignis hums to him all the while, repeating the vow of a safe haven and occasionally adjusting his glasses to brush away loose tears collecting at the corners of glistening emeralds.

The chef has made hundreds of meals in his lifetime, but none as important as this. Ignis ladles a decently-sized bowl full of oatmeal garnished further with fruits, setting the dish atop a tray along with another carton of milk and small plate of scrambled egg and a sausage link should the child’s stomach be up to it. His own can hold off until he’s sure Prompto has eaten his fill first, taking a can of Ebony for the seemingly perilous trip to sitting by the warm fire.

“Here we are, little one. It’s hot, so do be careful.” Maneuvering the boy to sit flush against his chest with tray atop knees, he expects him to dig in right away. Instead Prompto tilts his chin to nervously peer up at him.

 _“B-But you?”_ Two quiet words question, reminding the Advisor of a young man always putting others before himself. It would appear such a trait may have originated from the small child raised in a world of nothing, content to sacrifice all in making allies happy.

“I made plenty, don’t worry. I’m just not very hungry right now.” Actually he’s rather peckish, but the starving little boy needn’t know. Expression softening, Ignis cards a hand through the messy bedhead of blond. “I do thank you for thinking of me, Prompto. That’s very kind of you. Now why don’t you try some of your oatmeal?”

“ _What’s, um..._ ” Helplessly chewing on his bottom lip, the attempt of a question is silenced as utensil in tiny hand attempts to figure out which it is without asking. Trying to please.

“It’s the bowl before you, but you’re free to try anything you wish first.” Ignis assures, failing to not read too much into the child’s actions. “I’m afraid I don’t know your likes and dislikes quite yet, so don’t feel like you have to eat it because it’s there or your stomach doesn’t agree, alright?”

There it is again, that bewildered look of a world turned upside down.

Ignis tries not to show his anger.

“ _I....I...can...eat this?”_ Prompto sneaks a peek up once more, so very uncertain even as his little stomach rumbles that it wants to.

Ignis has to try harder.

“Yes, please. Please do.”

The anger doesn’t go away at first hesitant bite. Not the next after a great pause to make sure that yes, he can eat and Ignis isn’t having second thoughts to take it away.

Not the third, nor the fourth.

Not when Prompto slowly reaches for the carton of milk, glancing upwards at him as if to silently ask if that’s okay.

Not the twenty-third, nor the twenty-fourth.

Not when Prompto flinches with a whimper, dropping the spoon when Ignis merely bends to the side to retrieve his Ebony.

It never does.

It never will.


	10. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis reaches his limit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10 already! Where did the time go? I hope you've been enjoying this not-so-little fic thus far!
> 
> Thank you so, so, sooo much for your love and support!!!

 

 

That heavy, sleepy feeling has returned by the time Prompto’s finished most the ‘oatmeal’ as well as handled a few forkfuls of strange yellow-y white things and the whole brown food stick. Ignis had said he didn’t have to eat anything he disliked, and while the boy had wanted to make him happy by gratefully consuming all the human food provided, he’d obeyed. Still, Prompto had tried despite the unpleasant taste and slippery sensation of the squishy yellow pieces. The food stick had been nice, however, treating his tongue to a different experience than the oatmeal and its’ additions Ignis had him try beforehand. It was like his mouth had been set on fire, but a _good_ kind -- after first gulping down some ‘milk’ at the unexpected buzz. It’s called a ‘sausage’, the glasses-wearing man had explained in that gentle way of his before apologizing for neglecting to warn him of the slightly ‘spicy’ taste and that he needn’t finish, but Prompto had anyway because he _did_ like it. The ‘spicy’ part. Regardless of the worried warning and frown, something about his like of the ‘spicy’ had made Ignis just a little bit happy, not angry in the slightest about his dislike of the yellow-y things--the ‘scrambled eggs’.

“So you’ve always held a fondness for spicy foods, hm?” The way he’d said it sounded like a Scientist, like how they’d always discuss him as though nonexistent while strapped to the cold metal table, but there’d been warmth in his voice as fingers threaded through his hair. “I’ll have to see what recipes I have for simple, lightly spiced meals, then. Would you like that, little one?”

Yes, yes he would.

Prompto still doesn’t know why Ignis is being so kind towards him and considering his preferences when no one’s done either before, but he hopes he never stops. The heaviness in his filled stomach tempts him to close his eyes, hardly able to keep his grip on the little utensil scoop. Whereas last time he’d been terrified and fearful of tests and poison, the small child feels none of that as Ignis quietly asks if he’s finished eating, managing to sleepily bob his heavy head up and down before the utensil’s easily retrieved from slack hold. The tray’s been moved to the ground when his eyes crack back open at the man adjusting him on his lap, whimpering in protest to the gentle movement until hushed by that comforting accent.

“I’ve got you, you’re alright. Close your eyes and rest, little one.” Leo’s settled in his arms, fitting naturally as though destined to be cradled along with himself. “I’ll be right here when you wake.”

Ignis is true to his word when he’s torn from sleep by a scream.

 

* * *

 

_The sun’s an inferno against his aching back, clothes damp and sticky with sweat. It pours down his forehead, stinging at midnight eyes trained dead ahead. He hasn’t the energy to wipe it away, barely able to keep one foot before the stiffened other in a limping gait. A tree root sends him tumbling hard to the ground, taking all that the Prince has to stand back up by the same tree’s sturdy aid. No matter how much Noct perseveres, he never makes any progress through the winding dead wood, yet he must prevail._

_Prompto needs him._

_Noct falls and rises and falls and rises._

_He falls._

_The first breeze he can recall rustles about him, once barren trees suddenly lush with life._

_A beast roars._

_He opens his eyes._

_Amber stares back._

_“This is all your fault!” Noct rises with a howl fiercer than even Gladio’s, Engine Blade materializing in but a flick of the wrist and poised to warpstrike the godsdamned Time Beast down where it stands -- except he can’t, because the Prompto he knows and loves is right in the way._

**_There is no fault but your own._ **

_The Prince blinks and both vanish, bright sun eclipsed by chilling darkness. Prompto needs him, yet he’s nowhere to be found. Fire singes the sensitive hairs at the back of his neck. setting his childhood scar aflame from the intensity that doesn’t die down even as he sharply whips around despite body’s protest nearly tipping him over._

_The Red Giant easily towers over him, burning blade raised high in the air. It swings down, hard and heavy, but it isn’t Noct who screams in agony._

_It’s all his fault._

 

* * *

 

When Noct wakes, he can’t breathe. His heart races like a wild flock of chocobos trapped in his chest, whole body drenched with sweat that has him shivering but not just from the chilling sensation.

 _Prompto_.

There’s hardly any memory of finding the young boy, everything a disorienting mad scramble of pain and panic as wide eyes dart across the empty tent while simultaneously trying to sit up in his sleeping bag. Noct can barely keep composed long enough to yank the zipper down with shaky hands, body as unresponsive to his haywired commands to stand and search. His best friend’s name escapes his lips as he somehow makes it to his feet, hunched over in great pain that sends surroundings spinning and him back to the floor with a pathetic yelp.

“Noct!” His Advisor is shouting, or maybe it’s a whisper that sounds as such to his ears. Upon opening his eyes can he see the worried man, and while the sight of Ignis is always a balm to shot nerves, it doesn’t compare to the view of a very safe and very-much-alive Prompto peeking from behind. “Noct, can you give me your status? Can I move you?”

“ _Yeah‘m fine, just fell._ ” He grits out with the wince of a poor liar that sure as hell isn’t when Ignis cautiously adjusts him from his crash landing to propped up against the tent’s canvas wall. The child watches them all the while, little hand fisting the bottom of the Advisor’s shirt while holding Leo tightly against his chest with the other. Gods, is Noct so happy to see him in one piece, grimacing the best smile and tiny wave he can muster. “ _H-Hey, bud_. _You’re looking okay. S’good._ ”

Prompto takes immediate interest at the ground, peering up nervously with bottom lip trapped between teeth and fidgeting with one of Leo’s wings. Noct tries not to stare to add to his clear discomfort, instead taking note of how genuinely exhausted Ignis looks as he stretches over to obtain the muscle relaxers stowed away in his backpack. He’s likely slept as bad as he feels.

“Do you think you can eat first?” The Advisor inquires.

“Have _you_ eaten first?” His Prince counters.

“That’s not what I’m asking, Noct.” Ignis is firm despite his apprehension. “Can you eat?”

“Did _you_ eat.” Noct isn’t asking.

It’s a roundabout argument that Ignis hasn’t the time to quell his rightful concern, touched by his Prince’s worry as stubborn as it is and while in such pain.

“No, I haven’t yet. I plan on eating once you’re cared for.” He assures, setting Noct at ease with the promise. “Now, do you think you can stomach some breakfast to take your pills?”

“Are there vegetables?”

If Ignis Scientia was allowed to roll his eyes, he most certainly would take the opportunity to do so. Instead, he leaves the question unanswered as he turns his focus back to the boy as silent as a shadow.

“Prompto,” Addressing the child has him cease fidgeting, rigid with full-body at attention in that sheer desperation to please. He knows Noct sees it, but thankfully chooses not to comment. “Will you be alright here while I bring our friend Noct his breakfast? The tent is open so you’ll be able to see me, and I shan’t be far away should you need anything. Of course like last time you’re more than welcome to come with me. Which would you prefer?”

 _“...um..."_ Prompto’s back to the nervous habits, slowly glancing towards the entryway that does have a clear view of the kitchen area as reassured. His gaze wanders back to Noct, shyly looking away when the Prince meets his eyes and looks back to Ignis hopeful that he’ll understand.

“Do you wish to stay?” The boy nods, timid expression grateful to have it voiced for him as the glasses-wearing man ruffles disheveled blond with a soft smile. Though he wouldn’t have minded Prompto’s company, it’s a relief to witness his willingness to interact with those he feels comfortable with for however long his courage and confidence lasts. “Very well, then. I shall return shortly.”

Ignis takes his temporary leave, staying within sight as promised.

The first ten seconds are filled with silence.

“Uh, hey, you don’t have to stand. You’d be more comfy sitting, yeah?” Noct suggests and Prompto obeys like a soldier, taking a seat right where he’d been standing with legs criss-crossed and Leo hugged atop his lap. Wincing at the seamless compliance, he then regrets even that miniscule action as the child anxiously chews at his bottom lip like he’s missed something. Before he can stand back up to try and fix what’s not broken, Noct quickly tries to save face. “I’m really glad you’re okay. I was scared I wasn’t going to rescue you in time.”

“ _Rescue?”_ Prompto repeats, slipping the word out like it’s part of a secret spell.

“Yeah, rescue you.” He gently confirms much to the boy’s delayed embarrassment at having spoken aloud. “Look, it’s my fault--”

“ _Why me_?” The blond blurts before he can stop himself, flinching back as though expecting to...to...

Noct doesn’t want to finish that thought. He doesn’t even want to start unpacking all the not-so hidden meanings behind a sad, self-deprecating question from a kid so unrecognizable from the jovial young man he’ll someday grow back into.

“Because you’re my best--I mean, because you’re really special to me. You’re so special and loved that all this pain is worth knowing that you’re safe. No matter what happens, or how far away you go, I’ll _always_ rescue you, Prompto.” Never has he meant anything more, love and loyalty for his best friend shining through though the child won’t understand. The severity in his face fades with a wet sniffle, choking up at the sight of tears trickling down the boy’s pale cheeks. “Aw Prom no, why are you crying? You’re gonna make me cry, buddy.”

It’s far too late for that and too late for Prompto even if he wanted to, whimpering words the Prince can’t make out as his breathing hitches. Noct opens his arms despite the aching pain, doesn’t even need to ask as the kid hiccups aloud before blindly tumbling into the strongest embrace either can manage, plush chocobo smooshed between them. Reminiscing to hiding from the Red Giant, Noct tucks the blond’s head beneath his chin, not caring at all how tightly Prompto clutches to him and gets snot all over his shirt as he sobs, and certainly not how much his aching body pleads for mercy from flaring pains. Prompto is worth it, worth everything on the face of Eos.

Worth his own life.

“ _I’d do anything for you, Prompto. I don’t know how this is gonna work out in the end, but right now and after, I’m going to make sure you know how fucking important you are to us. To me.”_ Noct whispers over the child’s cries he can already tell aren’t going to stop until he’s exhausted himself. Managing to get a hand on the boy’s back, he can envision all those scars marring his torso and doesn’t doubt a continuation all across the calloused back he smooths his palm over in small circles. “ _N-No one’s gonna h-hurt you like this. Never again.”_

His tears wet Prompto’s hair, holding him close as though both their lives depend on it. They do.

It’s a vow Noct intends to keep for as long as he lives.

 

* * *

 

On the outside, Ignis is calm and collected.

On the inside, he sure as hell isn’t.

His hands tremble slightly while quickly preparing the fallen Prince’s meal, unable to banish the image of him collapsed and hurting terribly, true pain repressed due to young Prompto’s presence. The dozing child had jolted awake upon Noct’s frantic cry and crash, further startled by the Advisor swiftly rising to his feet. His priorities had been conflicted, one man torn between the two in need of his care, and it had hurt to pick Noctis first like he’d been raised to always, always put over himself and all else.

“Noct needs help.” Was all he’d managed to get out, leaving not even an option to stay or go for the wide-eyed little one as he’d rushed over to the open tent, distantly aware of Prompto clutching to some portion of his clothes.

Admittedly it hadn’t been the first time he’d seen Noct in such a state -- nor would it be the last, as loathsome as he is to admit it --, but _Astrals_. Though lectured for hours on end of medical knowledge and applying it to the Prince’s condition as not to feel completely helpless, Ignis still felt like it even with having as much control as the situation allowed. Of course, it certainly didn’t help that his neglect was cause for this attack. Had he kept a better eye on the boy, Noct wouldn’t have dashed into the daemon-infested forest to rescue him all by himself.

Prompto may not run off again after that little adventure, but he’ll still need a constant eye on him, one that can provide the comfort and security the deprived child needs like air. He’ll need love and attention and care -- all the nurturing qualities he’d been robbed of. Though it sounds simple put into words as if but a math equation, putting it into practice will take much time and patience. Like suddenly experiencing parenthood, if Ignis is going for an ironic twist given his lifelong duties of the future King’s Advisor. But that brings him back to Noctis and the matter at hand, as well as his daily duties attending to...well, _everything_. Assuring that every single aspect of their day runs smoothly at all times and plotting to the weeks ahead.

Ignis finishes plating Noct’s breakfast, hoping his often sensitive, picky stomach will cope with a meal similar to Prompto’s. He’s pleasantly surprised the child hadn’t changed his mind about keeping the ailing Prince company, though that soon turns to dread when he notices that the boy isn’t visible from the camp’s kitchen.

Is he alright?

Is _Noct_ alright?

His fears melt like his heart upon discovering the two, Prompto hidden away from the cruel world by Noct’s arms. His breathing is stuttered against his chest, leaving Ignis unable to tell if he’s awake or dreaming, but one thing is for certain. He’d been crying, and so the Prince had soothed him.

“Noct?” The murmur prompts the young man to glance up from the blond nest of a pillow, clear as day that Prompto hadn’t been the only one upset to the point of tears. “Oh, Noctis.”

 _“‘m’not fine.”_ He sniffs, droplets trailing down sticky cheeks while looking right into his Advisor’s eyes. “' _m’not, Iggy.”_

Gladio is right.

He’s going to burn himself out.


	11. Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct isn't the only one who needs help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rose, where the heck did you go?" You may be wondering to yourself. I had some personal stuff come up that had to be dealt with, so this fic kinda went to the back burner. Though I wasn't writing chapters at the time, I did figure out where this fic is going and got all that nice and outlined, so hiatuses really aren't all that bad. It can give you time to slow down and see the bigger picture P:
> 
> Also the holiday season is coming up and all that jazz, so that'll be a Time here.
> 
> I want to thank all of you for your support and comments. I woulda responded, but I'm horribly awkward at replying to late ones, and especially when I hadn't been writing. It wouldn't have felt right, I guess? I dunno. BUT I LOVE YOU ALL! I'm just weird. I promise I loved them a ton because comments honestly give me life.
> 
> Anyway! New chapter! I hope you enjoy!

 

 

“ _Prompto!”_

A body drops like deadweight.

The all-too-familiar chaotic crash resonates within the dozing boy’s entire being, startled awake and bewildered to _not_ find himself on the training mat with a disgusted drill instructor looming overhead. Though the heartstopping crash is what stole him from sleep, it’s not that which truly frightens Prompto, nor is it the short-lived reassurance of Ignis’s presence only informing him of Noct needing help. Bearings barely gathered and sense hardly registered, it’s all he can manage to hang tight to Leo before the glasses-wearing man stands abruptly, displacing him from comfortable lap to cold stone underfoot in but a dazed blink. Uncertain of how he out of anyone could be of any use -- much less _help_ \--, the little child soldier bites his lip before making great effort to grasp the hem of Ignis’s shirt becoming hastily out of reach. Heartbeats skipped like small steps overwhelmed by the adult’s far larger strides, the young boy anxiously, desperately hopes to all hope to be useful for once. Ignis had said that Noct needed help, but it’s not the Scientist’s name which echoes within fabricated walls, pained cries escalating in voice-cracking fear.

It’s cries of  _his_ name.

 _That_ is what scares him.

Prompto’s chest aches with an inexplicable explanation, the useless child trooper’s malfunctioning ways increasing hundredfold. The Lucian’s his sworn enemy -- he shouldn’t be helping him in the first place --, but Noct’s been nothing but kind. Nothing at all like the ruthless killers intent on destroying the Empire like in every simulation he’d either been corrected on for malfunctioning right away, or captured, tortured for information, and _then_ corrected for ending the intensifying cycle of pain by spilling military secrets. 

Never helped.

Never rescued.

Noct needs _his_ help. It’s because of the Lucian risking life and limb to keep him safe from daemons that his stupid self is still in one piece. It’s because of him that he’s back under Ignis’s care, returning the lost runaway to the glasses-wearing man as promised. It’s because of Noct that Prompto’s experienced all these nice things with Ignis again, like sleeping in soft, warm safety. Eating human food without correcting consequence. Being reunited with the Leo and the comfort the plush animal provides when held in frail arms. He’s been held a lot. Comforted a lot. It’s all...all thanks to the Lucian.

 _To Noct_.

It’s only right that he does try to help in any way his pathetic self can, but it’s more than that. Prompto wants to know _why_ . He _has_ to know. There’s nothing differentiating him from any other MT, except he’s absolutely worthless. His scores haven’t improved over past test periods no matter his valiant efforts to prove that he isn’t the weakest link out of the hundreds of near identical clones that share everything except every single one of his shortcomings. Why anyone would do anything...anything nice like the...like _Noct_ has done for him, it’s an impossible concept that Prompto cannot fathom. He’s nothing special. At all. He’s the lowest of the low. He’s worthless. Defective. Flawed. Unwanted.

 _Nothing_.

Not even _human_.

But just like Ignis, Noct also treats him like he is, smiling a tiny smile and waving a little wave from where he’s been adjusted to sitting and propped against a fabricated wall. The dark-haired boy looks awful, pain poorly masked, and the little blond finds the canvas flooring as an escape to evade those caring night-sky eyes rimmed with red. Prompto doesn’t understand why Noct finds it good that he’s okay. _He’s_ the one who isn’t. _He’s_ the one hurting because of the child’s ceaseless idiocy. Prompto fidgets more than he ever has in his young life, too lost in the winding circle of thought to overhear what’s likely a very important conversation between Scientist and Lucian that he ought to. There’s just so much he doesn’t understand, so much that no longer fits what he was certain he knew.

He’s supposed to help Noct, but all he’s been is unhelpful.

Ignis addresses him suddenly and all nervous tics are halted by ingrained obedience. He’s so still he’s positive all they can hear is his heart thumping with every quick beat. Prompto just wants to be good, to be of use, to make them happy, to be helpful to the ailing Noct. But all Ignis wants to know if he is ‘alright’ staying here while he brings their friend Noct ‘breakfast’ -- the human foods he’d eaten earlier -- and that he won’t be far. There’s no instructions about helping the Lucian still in pain, and the child is unsure of how he’s meant to fix him. Humans and MTs are nothing alike.

“ _...um...”_

The boy can’t help but be incredibly nervous at the option to be left alone with Noct, toying with Leo’s plush wing while glimpsing at where the human food is. Ignis will be there if he needs him. It’d be okay to go to Ignis as much as he hopes he won’t have to resort to it. Violet eyes take a fleeting look away when meeting with midnight blue before chancing a look up at soft green. Somehow Ignis understands without words, verbally translating his request and smiling when the child confirms with a nod. The hand to his hair is always so nice. Ignis is always so nice. Prompto _has_ to know why, too, but then he’s leaving. Gone, but within sight.

It’s just him and Noct now.

And the silence.

The Lucian says he doesn’t have to stand. It’s true he’d be more comfortable sitting than standing straight at attention, and an order is an order despite the strange way of phrasing it. Speaking with soft, hesitant kindness rather than harsh barking. Prompto is compliant, hoping that taking a seat right away will be helpful for the older boy and his pains while subconsciously hugging Leo atop his lap.

Noct winces.

That’s not right. Prompto didn’t do something right. What should he have done? Handed Leo over? Or is that wrong, too? It’s always, always something, but he doesn’t know what he’s missed. The order had seemed simple enough. Shiva, he’s an idiot. A failure. Ignis will be angry and the last the boy wants is to anger him again like when he’d first yelled at him for running away. Prompto means to stand, to beg for forgiveness never once granted while apologizing that his errors won’t be repeated, but Noct speaks first and it’s the one word that derails him as though thrown right off by the Lucian

 _Rescue_.

He’s unaware he’d repeated the sole word with a whisper until Noct confirms it all gentle-like as though the disobedient child hadn’t just dared to question him. Even then, Prompto unintentionally interrupts him again with a burning question that would’ve had him kicked for speaking out of turn -- for speaking at all. Questioning at all.

“ _Why me?”_ The two tiny but powerful words are blurted out and he flinches back from their strength as if possible for such words to turn around and punch him right in the face. They have, always soon followed by physical corrections towards the mouth that dare ask ‘why’.

Any moment now, Noct will do the same. He’ll never know the answer because Noct will never, ever treat him with such kindness again. Worse, he’ll confiscate Leo. Worse than that, he’ll order for Prompto to destroy the plush by his own hands.

It’s what a nothing like him deserves.

But maybe, maybe it’ll at least make Noct’s pain go away at the cost of it hurting more than every single correction combined.

Noct looks him right in the eye.

The order never comes.

The honest answer does.

He’s...special to Noct. He’s _special. Loved._ The pain, all the pain that flickers across his face and flares throughout his body is worth it because it means Prompto -- him _, Prompto_ \-- is _safe_ . Noct will always, always, no matter what, no matter where, _will always --_

_Always._

Noct will _always --_

Prompto’s heart can’t bear it.

Noct asks why he’s crying with such sadness in his broken voice and the small child truthfully doesn’t know when the tears had started rolling down his cheeks. Prompto doesn’t even know when he’d started blubbering that none of that can be true because he’s not at all what Noct claims with such sincerity that he could almost, almost believe it. He’s nothing. Nothing, nothing. There’s absolutely nothing he’s done to ever, ever deserve this. There’s nothing he can do to make it stop, either, and now he’s gone and made Noct tear up.

He doesn’t even remember who the Lucian _is_ to him and _why_ he’d...he’d...

Prompto doesn’t understand what’s _real_ anymore.

All he understands is Noct opening his arms for him, gulping for air before shutting his eyes and blindly stumbling into the embrace with Leo trapped between trembling bodies. Prompto clutches to whatever part of Noct that he can, sobbing uncontrollably as he’s tucked  beneath his chin just like before in the darkness. Keeping him safe. It’s all new to the boy finding he can cry harder than he thought possible as if conveying how his shattered, malfunctioning heart aches with great pain and sorrow. Ignis and Noct have...not been correcting it like he’s always known how, but rather piecing it back together bit by bit through their comforting kindness towards him. Prompto doesn’t know how to describe it, once again can’t comprehend Noct’s solemn vow he’d do anything for him. He’s important. Important to all of them. Important to Noct.

He’s...He’s _important_.

Prompto can’t even begin to do anything with that statement, can only pitifully whimper between wailing against Noct’s collarbone that he _isn’t_. Whether or not he’s heard, the older boy just slowly circles his palm along his scarred back like Ignis does.

No one’s going to hurt him like this. Never again.

Shiva, would Prompto give anything to believe Noct truly, earnestly means it.

It sounds like he does.

Feels like he does.

It _can’t_ be true, though.

Once they all find out he’s nothing at all like they’ve told him, moments like this will all be over. The small child isn’t human like them, after all. That’s the only reality in this fantasy. He’ll wake from his cold, stifling little storage pod and this will all be over, but until then.

Until then, he’ll take all he can get from the second individual in his short life to have gained his complete trust.

As long as he’s with Noct, everything will be ‘alright’.

 

* * *

 

 

Noct isn’t fine. 

His body is way beyond its limits, back pain excruciating with a throbbing migraine to boot. Yet his heart is what hurts the most, open and vulnerable and still taking a brutal beating for every minute he holds onto his weeping best friend with no intentions of ever letting go despite it all. Stubbornly and to spite of Prompto’s past abusers, he wouldn’t have and ultimately would’ve suffered worse consequences were it not for his Advisor’s return.

Ignis isn’t fine, either.

The Prince can read the poorly hidden tells through watery eyes, of how his hand quivers when joining his upon the boy’s backside and mapping out scars beneath fabric. The tremble is there in his accented voice barely above a murmur, prompting the child to look over at him. There’s another, then, that waver followed by clearing his throat while pushing up glasses that are never askew.

Hiding his face.

Putting on that near-perfect mask of neutrality.

Noct knows better now.

“I see you kept our friend Noct some company after all. You have my thanks, little one.” Ignis withdraws the handkerchief from his pocket, a rehearsed movement with tender actions as if on autopilot for how methodical he gently wipes Prompto’s face smeared of tears and snot. The soft smile is resilient even as their companion sniffles with more to surely come, setting the cloth aside to smooth disheveled blond spikes. “You were a very great help to us.”

 _“D-Didn’t...Didn’t help.”_ Prompto whispers, nervously averting his gaze with bottom lip between baby teeth. “ _I-I-”_

“You did. You helped so much, buddy.” Noct quickly reassures with limited body movements, hiding a wince by biting his own lip while scrubbing beneath his eyes with the back of a hand. “You help more than you know.”

 _“B-But._ ” The boy begins to protest only to firmly clamp his mouth shortly after. There’s so much more he wants to say, clear by taking Leo back into his arms as if to calm shot nerves. Though the day is still as young as him, it’s evident he’s been through enough inner turmoil and emotional distress, not helped at all by the Prince’s recklessness upon waking.

He’s such a mess. How the hell is he meant to restore his kingdom and care for it when he can’t even take proper care of himself? Especially with Prompto as he is, small and scared and needing Noct to get his shit together via Gladio’s stern advice. Not only for the child, but for his Advisor as well -- though the man will never admit the overwhelming stress that his ailing Prince puts upon him.

“I’m sorry, Specs.” Noct swallows hard, the lump in his throat near choking him while meeting Ignis’s eyes and questioning brow. “I...Thank you, for breakfast. I’ll eat now, so don’t worry about me, okay?”

“It’s quite alright, Noct.” Being told not to worry always leads Ignis to worry all the more, no matter his trust in the Prince. It’s as ingrained in him as breathing, as hard as that’s become as of late. It’s difficult even now to keep his composure whenever he dares look at Noct’s pained features and Prompto’s despair, Gladio’s warning ringing in his ears. “Please...don’t worry yourself over me and do eat your breakfast before it grows too cold. The sooner you’ve rested, the better.”

Noct’s as convinced as Prompto over praise, and also says no more on the matter despite wishing to speak his true feelings. He’ll always worry over Ignis and wishes he could stop making his Advisor fret over his wellbeing.

Eating his breakfast to take his pills is a good start.

“Hey, Prom?” The quiet child obediently begins to part from his lap before even asked, body language screaming at the top of its lungs of assumed rejection. Noct’s fingers encircle his slim, bony wrist before he gets very far. “Hey, it’s okay, bud. You, uh, don’t have to go. You can stay right next to me instead, if you want.”

The relief that shines on the kid’s face is so damn heartwrenching like Noct’s promised him the world. Prompto still peers over at Ignis like all of this is really real and it’s okay for him, like he has to be granted permission to do what he’s already entitled to.

That poker face falters for just a blink.

“Prompto,” Ignis pushes his glasses up, hiding for but a moment. That’s all it takes for the weary expression to disappear, replaced by picture perfect neutrality. “It would be...very helpful for me if you stayed here with Noct. Just for now. I promise I’ll be back. Is...Is that alright? I’m afraid that’s the only option I have for you as of now.”

“ _You...You’ll be back...?”_ Prompto repeats carefully, hopefully.

“Yes, just like before. I promise.” Though reassured, it takes a beat for Prompto to finally, slowly crawl over to sit at the Prince’s right side.

“Ignis...” Noct begins, only to be interrupted by his Advisor standing so suddenly.

“Your breakfast, Noct.” Is all he says.

Then he’s gone.


	12. Help Arrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gladio finally comes back into the story for a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so, so, soooo much for the warm welcome back to this fic! Your comments meant so much ;~;
> 
> 820+ kudos and about 9.6k views AAAAAAAAA ;;~;;
> 
> Thank you so much and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also a belated Happy Birthday to Prompto <3

 

Gladio’s greatsword is deep in a garula’s flank when his pocket vibrates with a text notification. Not that he’d ever admit to it, but he’d been expecting a text from Ignis at some point, the Advisor’s stubborn independence be damned. It’d be his luck that the man had held off until the Shield was at his limit for fighting solo, having done nothing but hit up the local hunts since preparing what he could of breakfast. Not that he was tired, of course. Clarus never would’ve let him hear the end of it. Shields don’t ever tire, not even at their dying breath. It’s the only reassurance he has over his father’s demise, defending the late King until.

Until he’d.

Gladio banishes the thought, transfers all the bottled anguish into delivering the final blow against the last unruly beast on the wanted list. There’s no greater Amicitia pride than serving as a Shield like every man in his family before him and an honor to lay down their lives for their King when the time should arise. Realistically at times of war -- even what _was_ a negotiated peace treaty --, there was always that chance of losing his father. Gladio should be proud of Clarus. He _is_. It’s the same that’ll happen to himself should anything threaten Noctis that he can’t handle in the end and will die his damnedest trying.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt though.

Doesn’t mean there isn’t another empty hole in his heart like where his mother used to be. Beneath all the family duty and lifelong servitude, he’s just a guy that’s now lost his father and the entire godsdamn kingdom. Everything, except Iris. Talcott, too.

Gladio can’t say the same of Jared anymore.

Reminding himself of the family that needs him now, he withdraws phone from pocket and wipes grimy fingers against equally filthy leather pants before unlocking it.

“ _Gladio, are you far?”_

“ _Nah.”_ It’s a few miles out, but the Advisor needn’t worry about a minor detail. If Ignis needs him, and Gladio doesn’t doubt it with this clear indication, he can eat those miles for breakfast with a jog. “ _What’s up, Iggy? Need something?”_

The text comes a minute later.

_“Noct’s bedroll?”_

The specialty one they’ve got stowed away in the Regalia’s trunk for when the Prince’s back is kicking his...well, back. In hindsight he should’ve pulled it out that night, but Noctis had needed his presence more. Though Gladio knows how insistent Ignis is on taking the blame for Prompto’s running away, Noct’s physical condition is his responsibility. Their Prince is a big boy that can take care of himself and handle a few bumps and bruises, and while Gladio _had_ told Ignis to trust in him, had also worried himself. It wouldn’t have helped anyone to lose Ignis in the dark unknown, and his fuckup with Prompto sure as hell wouldn’t have helped bring the kid back safe and sound. Noct could handle it, as itchy as he’d been over the very idea of his charge alone in daemon-infested woods.

And handled it he had, taking his Shield’s big brotherly advice to keep it together for their child-sized companion in need of him. It’s kind of a shame that Noct hadn’t been entirely conscious to hear his Shield dole out rare praise of how proud he was of the little shit.

Back at the matter at hand, it’s odd of Ignis to request that particular item when he’s far closer to the car than Gladio is. It’s just a short walk away from the Haven.

Something’s up, but it’s a whole other kind of beast to pry it out of the man.

“ _You got it. Need anything else?”_

Ignis doesn’t respond for a good ten minutes as he’s making tracks for camp, surprising him when the notification buzzes and more so at the answer.

_“You.”_

Collecting the bounty can wait.

 

* * *

 

The first Ignis had done after abandoning his charge and child best friend was sit at the edge of the Haven. Quite honestly he couldn’t recall the steps there, but it’d been easy to fall from his feet for how weak his legs had become. Shortly after, he’d pushed his glasses up, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose so hard that he very well could’ve crushed his entire nasal cavity. It would’ve been easy to suffocate from there considering how difficult it was to breathe just from his mouth, trembling lips sealed shut with adam’s apple aching.

His eyes are just so, just as tight and stinging from tears so dangerously close to being shed. The last he’d come so close to a complete breakdown was reading the breaking news headline all those weeks ago back at Galdin Quay and knowing it would be him to break the news to his allies. Quite literally break as it were, at the reports of their home obliterated and families presumed dead. But no, Ignis had managed to stay strong then, as proper and well organized as always. Keeping all their lives together even as they’d been ripped apart.

Now he feels himself incapable of even tying his own shoes, much less retrieve his phone without dropping it on hard stone and shatter, a metaphor for his fragile state.

The Advisor is not fond of this helpless vulnerability. He’s especially not fond that this is exactly how little Prompto has been feeling ever since reverting to a child and the revealed abuse of his past that no matter how they try to heal in the present, is unpreventable. Noctis as well, his Prince in just a delicate condition that he easily could’ve prevented had he considered the possibility of the child fleeing in the middle of the night. That’s his lifelong occupation, after all. Foreseeing every possible circumstance and guiding the Prince through the best course of action.

Ignis had failed to do both those things.

He’s currently failing as of this moment of not being by their sides.

Being _selfish_.

Allowing himself to burn out, just as Gladio had warned.

And now, to add yet another insult to injury, must ask for help.

He is a fool to have let this happen, but isn’t one to let it escalate any further. He’s no help to anyone if he cannot perform at top quality. Only more mistakes will be made that they cannot afford.

He at least manages to text Gladio in question of his whereabouts with fingers difficult to control. It wouldn’t be like the Shield to wander far off and Ignis wouldn’t be surprised that the swordsman is close by as if having anticipated his eventual cry for help. He won’t, however, admit to himself that he’s asking for help, merely support. Either way, he’s relieved to see the response that he isn’t far. There’s a hundred things Ignis is in need of, but puts the Prince first.

The bedroll specialized for Noct’s flaring back pain, a miracle in itself that he’d been thoughtful enough to bring along just in case. Originally they had planned on camping for a night or two just like in the old days, and while sleeping bags would suffice, it didn’t hurt to be prepared. At least the Advisor had foreseen something right, as it’d come in handy a few times prior on their never-ending road trip of a lifestyle.

It’s pathetic that he can’t get his body and mind to cooperate to fetch the crucial item himself when it’s but a short distance away, and just as deplorable at the relief when Gladio texts back that he can get it for him. It’s the next part that has him put pressure back at his nose, inhaling sharply while trying and failing to keep tears unshed.

Ignis holds off for ten minutes, unable to convince himself otherwise about what he needs. _Who_ he needs to Shield him from the world, to lean on for just a little while until he can compose himself once more. Fingers skate over the three little letters before hitting ‘send’.

The last Ignis does is hold his face in his hands.

* * *

 

Gladio may be a mess by the time he reaches the Haven with Noct’s bedroll tucked under an arm, but that’s nothing compared to the state he finds the Advisor in. Ignis sits at the runestone’s edge, face obscured by gloved hands. The man doesn’t even look up when he calls out softly in case their two other party members are nearby, both likely inside the tent. Noct must be if his back is killing him, and the last Gladio wants is to frighten the piss out of Prompto again.

“Ignis?” The Shield tries again, back of his hand lightly tapping the man’s knuckles. To his relief, the barrier of hands is lowered to a flushed expression he’s never seen once on Iggy’s face. He pauses briefly before continuing with a greater tone of softness in his voice. “Hey, I’m here.”

“So you are.” Though his face is dry, he still sounds as if he’d been crying. Gods, he looks like a wreck.

“The kids in the tent?” Gladio asks quietly, chancing a glance towards that way. He can scarcely make out Noct’s boots and presumes Prompto must be with him when Ignis nods wearily. “Gonna take it Noct hasn’t had his meds yet?”

The Advisor shakes his head and the Shield hums as if to placate him that it’s alright. The answer had been obvious given his current possession of the bedroll, but Gladio needs what details he can get out of Ignis about what he’s walked into.

“Think you can get Princess all settled since Blondie’s in there?” He wouldn’t ask anything of Ignis when the man clearly needs a break, but he also can’t compromise the kid’s sanity. It’s the Advisor’s turn to hum thoughtfully, taking Gladio’s hand in offer to help him back to his feet.

“I believe I can manage that.” His legs feel so much stronger with the unyielding support provided, finding it so much easier to stand knowing that Gladio is indeed here. Retrieving the handkerchief, he wipes his face of all evidence of distress before tucking it away and taking the bedroll from him. Those sage green eyes don’t miss the signs of skirmishes on the Shield. “You must be exhausted, Gladio. Why not take a seat?”

“Alright.” The gentle giant doesn’t argue with that, planning on taking that seat only until Ignis is finished with task.

He’s got a lot of work to do.

 

* * *

 

Tray of breakfast precariously balanced atop knees, being bent over by a bad back almost makes it easier to eat with the lessened distance. Less work for his trembling arm to lift up spoonfuls of oatmeal, but still requiring just as much concentration. While he’d rather just skip out eating in favor of a long, long nap induced by Astrals-blessed muscle relaxers, it’s only by his Advisor’s plea before leaving that Noct keeps going for his sake.

Prompto’s, too.

“Ignis will be back.” Noct repeats not only for himself, but for the little blond child glued at his side so close that he’ll be joining the tray atop his lap. He just hopes he’ll take his time with returning, taking all that he needs while on break from watching over abused ally. “Hey, Prom?”

The boy sits up straighter, head snapping up at attention from where his gaze had been wandering to a particular plate. He squeezes Leo against his chest, but the Prince can still hear that small stomach growl and sets his spoon down.

“Didn’t you get something to eat? Before I fell?” He’ll never forgive himself if this starved Prompto’s missed out on a meal because of him. Ignis wouldn’t have forgotten to bring him something to eat as well if that were the case, right? No, he must’ve been fed.

Prompto nervously bites his lip. Fidgets.

“ _...yes_.” He admits as though defeated, curling in on himself like he thinks he’s not allowed to eat anything else. It kills Noct to imagine that, much more gather the strength to ask.

“Are you still hungry?”

Prompto doesn’t answer this time, but a whimper escapes between the teeth on his bottom lip. Gods, it’s killing him more than his head and back.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. I can’t eat all of this by myself, so. You can have what you want, alright? Pick what all you want.” Noct gestures to the entire thing with a flick of his wrist, hoping to every Astral that exists that the poor kid will pick something he likes. There’s no way in hell he’ll be able to eat anything with an empty-handed Prompto watching him like a starving stray dog.

The child just nibbles and nibbles like he’s just going to eat his own lip instead. Shit, maybe _that’s_ why he does that to begin with, more than just an innocent nervous tic.

“ _I-I...I can...?”_ Those violet eyes look over each individual item before panning back up at him to really, truly make sure that the Prince means it.

“Yes, you can. Whatever you want, buddy.”

Prompto gulps.

“ _But this...it’s yours...I ca-can’t."_

Noct bites his own lip. Remembers to breathe.

“Okay yeah, it’s _for_ me, but I want to share with you, so it’s okay, okay?” Gently taking Prompto’s left hand while trying to ignore the nails chewed to all hell, he tenderly unfurls the little fingers to set a utensil in before curling them back over. “Alright, bud. Do you want some scrambled eggs?”

Prompto immediately shakes his head. Noct takes it as a good sign only because he’s still holding the silverware.

“How about toast?”

No luck.

“Uh, oatmeal?” Prompto at least perks up at that before shaking his head.

 _“The um...it’s...”_ The boy stumbles over his words, pointing at the links on the plate he’d been staring at earlier. Drooling over. “ _The spicy._ ”

“‘Spicy?’ What, you mean the sausage? You still like spicy stuff, huh?” Noct can’t help a tiny smile or slightly ruffling blond locks as Prompto confirms with a nod while repeating the name to himself. “Yeah, okay. You can have all of ‘em if you like, and if you’re still hungry you can have some oatmeal or -- hey, don’t do that!”

Prompto recoils instantly, fork clattering on the plate stuffed with the three whole sausage links barely fitting on the utensil with clear intention to shove all in his mouth. He’s backing away, too, before Noct can stop him, flinching even as the Prince weakly reaches for him. There’s so much fear in those wild violet eyes he can only catch a glimpse of before the boy’s bowing his head.

“ _I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry!”_

“Prom...”

_“I’m sorry!"_

“It’s okay, buddy. Just. Just look at me? Please?”

The sole reason he looks up is the very same why he straightens up at mock attention when addressed. Like someone’s conditioned unwavering obedience into the poor kid, and Noct really, really doesn’t want to envision the sick methods used to achieve it and ultimately resulting in his anxious desperation to please.

He’d seen enough just by all those godsdamn scars.

“You’re okay. I’m not mad at you, alright? I’m not mad, and I’m not ever going to hurt you even if I was.” Noct reassures, vision blurring at how the tension leaves Prompto’s rigid body just like that as he peers back up with such wide eyes. Astrals, he’s so easy to read, every heartbreaking emotion present on that little face. “You can still eat, I promise, you just gotta cut ‘em up into bite-size pieces first or you’ll choke. Didn’t Ignis do that for you?”

The child nods but makes no move to return at his side.

“See, just like this.” Freeing the utensil first, Noct manages to cut a piece off before sticking into it with the fork. He lifts it carefully, reaching out as best he’s capable of in Prompto’s direction. “It’s okay now, Prom. I know you’re hungry, so please?”

The small blond stays where he is that for a moment the Prince doesn’t think this’ll work at all and he’s screwed this all up. But Prompto -- sweet, innocent Prompto with all the horrific shit he’s endured and rightfully has no reason to trust _anyone_ \--, comes forward, lured like an abandoned animal cowering in a back alley. All because he _trusts_ Noctis, clear as crystal when taking that offered bite of sausage.

“Pretty good ‘spicy’, huh?”

Prompto nods.

“ _Can I...um...more?”_

“Yeah, of course, buddy. I said you could have ‘em, didn’t I?” A soft, fond smile graces his features despite pain, setting the fork back onto the plate. The boy crawls back over, settling once more tucked against his right side with Leo gathered on crossed legs. Noct carefully hands him the whole thing, watches as he mimics cutting the rest the link into appropriate pieces. “Alright, good job.”

That’s a hint of a smile if he’s ever seen one, like sunshine peeking out after a devastating storm.

Noct picks his spoon back up and begins to eat.

 


	13. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis breaks and Gladio takes charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They say 13 is an unlucky number, but I feel so lucky with this fic and all your support! This chapter's also a bit longer as well!
> 
> WE. HAVE. REACHED. OVER. 10K. HITS.
> 
> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA thatissoincredible
> 
> Thank you all so much and I hope you enjoy ;;;;;;;;;

 

 

Ignis lightly knocks on the tent’s entrance to notify the two occupants of his presence. Only Noct answers, midnight eyes immediately upon him and watching every movement from steady body language to steeled facial expression when stepping inside with his bedroll. Prompto’s just as he’d left him, the small boy tucked into the Prince’s side as though taking up residency in his ribcage. He may as well for how he lives within their hearts, bringing as much warmth as ache when looking up at the Advisor.

“I’ve returned as promised.” Ignis murmurs softly with a smile, not missing that tiny upwards tug at the child’s lips for all the world. It’s uncertain and hesitant, like a sole star trying to light up the night sky, but it’s _there_ and that’s all that matters. “You have my thanks once again for keeping Noct company for me.”

“Yeah, thanks, buddy.” Noctis turns his undivided attention away from Ignis to voice his gratitude directly at Prompto. The little ghost of a smile disappears only from shyly hiding his face behind Leo, protest weakly muted by plush feathers.

The Advisor leaves him be with a hum, preparing the bedroll next to the abandoned sleeping bag before rising to collect the emptied dishes and tray. There’s a plate and fork left in front of the little blond and he can’t help a slight frown. It’s not that Prompto had eaten some of Noct’s breakfast -- which admittedly, he doubted the Prince would finish to begin with --, but that the child had been hungry and hadn’t told him about it. Of course he hadn’t. Why should he when no one’s given a damn about a single one of his needs?

“Prompto?” The boy tenses like he’s read Ignis’s mind, already fidgeting away as Noct gets the idea just as the man stacks the items atop the tray with the rest. “You’re alright, little one. I just noticed you helped Noct with his breakfast and wish to know if you’re still hungry.”

Prompto shakes his head right away and the Advisor’s unable to tell if it means he isn’t, or doesn’t want to burden them by admitting if he is despite Ignis’s earlier promise of taking care of his nutritional needs. Perhaps he’s come to an outlandish conclusion that they’re mad at him for eating food that wasn’t originally intended for him and as a result won’t dare risk eating anything again.

“It’s okay to say you’re hungry if you’re hungry, Prom. We’re not gonna starve you.” Noct attempts to advise, but the boy won’t look at either of them in the eye, taking feign interest in the ground with quivering lip between teeth. “Or if, y’know, you’re thirsty or anything. Anything at all, you can tell us. We wanna know if you are, okay? Can you do that for us?”

It’s far too much to request of the child all at once, like telling him all of his wishes will come true just by asking when they never have before. Such creature comforts may as well seem a fairytale, an impossible dream that should’ve been reality.

He’s just a _child_.

A child that’s begun to sniffle.

“That’s...enough for now, Noctis.” Ignis has to remind himself to remain calm, feeling the creeping heat those burned-out edges begin to infiltrate his soul again. The Prince opens his mouth to surely argue that Prompto _needs_ to hear it, but only to cease at the very same boy’s Leo-suppressed hiccup. “I believe it’s time you took your medicine.”

“Y-Yeah.” He weakly nods more than speaks, becoming overwhelmed once again by child’s distress over the notion that no one’s cared for his neglected needs to the point where their insistence to provide renders him to unworthy tears. “I...I’m so sorry, Prompto.”

“ _For what_?”

Their child companion finally speaks up only to inquire so innocently like there’s not a thing for them to be sorry for, and especially not towards him. Noct’s too busy scrubbing beneath his eyes with the back of a hand to answer -- perhaps that _is_ his response, too distracted in miserably preventing himself from crying. Neither notice the Advisor push his glasses up with a sharp inhale, taking far longer than a few seconds of hidden composure.

A full minute.

Ignis closes his eyes. Remembers he needs to exhale. Opens them. Kneels before the boy with the kindest mannerisms he can muster when falling apart on the inside.

“Prompto, might I ask that you continue to keep Noct company? His medicine will make him very sleepy, you see, and so I’d be very grateful if you could stay here with him. You can even take a nap yourself, if you feel so inclined.” Though he’s proven to be so very obedient regardless of personal desires, there’s still heartbreak and disappointment in those wet violet eyes. Prompto needn’t try to verbally express what he can easily surmise, like having a parent leave so soon after returning -- the very same expression a young Noctis would wear when Regis was called away. “I’ll be back again, don’t you fret, little one. I’ll just be making us something very delicious and spicy while you both rest. Would you like that?”

Prompto nods, that barely-there smile on his lips as Ignis cards a hand through his hair.

Astrals, they don’t deserve such a precious soul.

“Very well. Now that’s sorted, let’s get you situated, Noct. Are you able to lift your arms so I may remove your shirt?”

“Yeah, just. Gimme a sec.” Noct finishes rubbing beneath his eyes, appearing just as forlorn despite his best efforts. “I’m so tired, Iggy.”

“I know, Noctis.” His Advisor’s heart pangs with the knowledge of all that’s drained the Prince dry like the Crystal’s magic, far more than back trouble that’s fatigued him so. The only solace is that he’ll be asleep soon, able to escape for a few hours and hopefully wake anew. “Shirt and pills, then you may lay down and sleep.”

Ignis keeps himself collected as Noct grimaces at raising his arms just enough for him to grasp the bottom of his shirt and gently pull it over his head. He bites his own lip at the pained gasp Noct releases, always inevitable no matter his delicacy. The caregiver is right there with the proper dosage and canteen, handing both over for the Prince swallow before taking a swig of water. Noct’s whole body shakes as his Advisor does what he does best, guiding him with the utmost care towards the bedroll and settled upon his stomach.

He only relaxes at Noct’s sigh, midnight slipping shut with relief. It’ll still be a little while before sleep takes him, but at least he’s relatively comfortable for the time being. Prompto, on the other hand, appears the opposite. The trace of a smile is long gone, vanquished by the return of a wobbly bottom lip. Horrified violet is transfixed upon the Prince’s back and to no wonder what’s demanded his focus.

“ _Noct’s hurt."_ The child whispers, dangerously close to tears. “ _I-I hurt him. I hurt Noct.”_

“Oh no, no, no, sweet Prompto. This wasn’t you. Come here, dove, it’s alright.” Ignis immediately reassures as he slowly does, taking tiny step by tiny step while biting his lip. His eyes never leave Noct for more than a few seconds, squeezing Leo to his chest at each hard glance. “When...When he was your age, he was attacked by a daemon that very nearly...nearly...he would have if it wasn’t for...ah, my apologies.”

Ignis pushes his glasses up for a long, long minute. Reminds himself of Prompto’s presence at his side, tugging at his shirt as though to question if he’s alright.

“The daemon scarred him.” There’s far more to the story than that, but the Advisor keeps it simple of the once energetic child reduced to a quiet, meek shell of his former self. It’s almost parallel to Prompto’s case now that he thinks about it, but a far more dangerous monster of a so-called human that’s abused and tormented the boy for Astrals knows how long. “Sometimes it brings him pain, and so he must rest. Do know that while yes, he did strain himself to rescue you, he did it of his own free will because you were worth it.”

Prompto stares up at him like none of that can possibly be true even though he’d likely heard it from the Prince’s mouth himself. Ignis rests his hands on both his tiny little shoulders, envisioning the plethora of scars beneath the marred surface.

“You are worth the world, little one. You are worthy of having nourishment, shelter, and those that cherish you as you are. I understand that you don’t understand, but I do hope you’ll come to realize this even after you’ve grown.”

Prompto opens his mouth as though to speak, though soon shuts it shortly after. The Advisor puts on a tender smile for his efforts, running a gentle hand through his hair. As always, the child tilts into the touch, violet orbs closing to savor the painless physical contact with the rest of his senses. Leaning forward to seek more, his forehead bumps into Iggy’s chest and remains there, little hands reaching to grasp little fistfuls of fabric with Leo suspended by an elbow. Wetness stains right over Ignis’s weeping heart and he maneuvers his free arm around the boy’s back, rubbing circles along his spine.

It takes no time at all for Prompto to cry himself out, each revelation of their nurturing natures taking a toll on his fragile heart. He’s as pliant as ever, not a peep of protest as Ignis settles him next to Noctis and drapes a spare blanket over him and chocobo plush. Astrals, he’ll will never understand how anyone could intentionally harm this very same child -- this very same _Prompto --_ that pleads with his eyes for the man not to leave him just yet. Ignis pushes up his glasses, keeps the hand there to hide his face while soothing the boy to sleep.

Astrals forbid there ever come a time where he’ll be forced to choose between the two.

 

* * *

 

It turns out he’d been a bit more tired than he’d lied to himself to believe, doing a little more than resting his eyes while sitting on the fireside chair, legs stretched out and arms firmly crossed against his chest. Gladio’s lost count of the number of times his chin’s touched down, shaking his head while keeping a sharp ear open for Ignis’s exit. Noct can complain about his behemoth-like snoring all he likes, but he’s a light sleeper by trade. Nothing gets by the Shield, not even while unintentionally picking up a few seconds of shut-eye. It wouldn’t do to have a sneaky assassin pay a visit in the dead of night, or a burned-out Advisor attempt to slip by pretending all’s well. Gladio can hear that by the clinking of dishes atop a tray held by trembling hands.

Ignis Scientia has never asked for help a day in his life and Gladio can respect that, what with all the lifelong devotion to the Crown. Yet in moments like these, they’re not Royal retainers. Right now, they’re childhood friends and Ignis _needs_ him.

Gladio’s ready to answer that call.

Rising carefully with a brief full-body stretch, he cautiously approaches the camp’s kitchen, taking a brisk step forward at Ignis nearly missing the countertop. The Advisor rarely ever curses, especially by his own doing, wincing while looking past the Shield’s bulk towards the tent. Even at no sign of alerting their sleeping companions, he’s still as tense as ever as though walking on eggshells while wearing oversized boots. The feeling’s mutual with what feels like a hostage situation, diplomacy not exactly his strong suit of solving problems with blades and fists. Gladio can lead the Advisor to rest, but it sure as hell doesn’t mean he will.

One does not simply tell Ignis to take a break, no matter how aware he himself knows he’s in need of one.

So Gladio watches -- patience not exactly one of his strengths, either --, absorbing every little detail he can as Ignis searches through their assortment of drinks for Ebony, no doubt. There’s still leftover oatmeal simmering away on the back burner, a decent amount of eggs, a couple sausages, and toast. He’d filled up on beef jerky and coffee before setting out, leaving the too few dirty dishes to be that of Noct and Prompto, Prince and neglected child given top priority over himself.

Gladio hates that it doesn’t surprise him, observing as he fiddles with the aluminum tab with uncooperative fingers that quiver all the more the longer it takes.

“Hey,” The Shield utters softly and Ignis genuinely jumps as though he’s managed to actually startle him, beverage slipping from poor grasp only for the swordsman to catch with impeccable reflexes. He sets the drink on the counter, but the Advisor’s eyes remain on him. “You have anything else besides this today?”

Guilt flickers across his features before taking hold, pushing up glasses that’d been perfectly balanced atop his nose.

“I..I assured Noct I would. I must have forgotten.” Ignis admits truthfully, turning away before moving that same hand to withdraw trusty recipe notebook from pocket. “He’ll be needing a proper meal when he wakes -- ah, Prompto as well. I can hold off until then.”

So much for trying diplomatic patience.

Gladio sets his hand on the man’s shoulder, tense muscles a stiff mess beneath the skin. Ignis pauses at the touch before relaxing and the Shield can swear he hears the smallest of exhales, like that of choked relief.

“Go put your feet up for a while, Iggy. Hell, as long as you want.”

“I couldn’t possibly do such a thing.” It’s a rehearsed phrase as weak as the man whispering it.

“You _can_ drop the act around me, you know.” Gladio reminds him gently as he turns, not meeting him in the eye. His free hand engulfs the one holding the notebook, fingers so cold within the heat of his own. “I’m here for you, Ignis. Let me take care of you, please.”

There’s no answer in return, but the book is given up without so much as a sliver of resistance. Ignis swallows hard, makes no effort to push up the glasses that’ve begun to slip. He doesn’t even flinch as the Shield sets the notebook aside to join the can on the counter, tenderly removing the eyeglasses off his face with the utmost care. Without them, the Advisor actually looks his true age, as young a man as the rest of them -- one that’d been forced to grow up too quickly at once, taking on responsibilities that would have crushed anyone else.

Burned out anyone else a helluva lot sooner.

Honestly, no one on the face of all Eos deserves Ignis, least of all the Kingdom Gladio suspects never appreciated him as they should’ve -- nothing more but a prodigy to be used, never thought of as human like everyone else. He keeps that in mind as always, gently guiding childhood friend to a seat at the fire, handing back the glasses for safekeeping. Ignis says nothing as he walks away, but there’s a definite wet sniff at loosely folding his arms like a last ditch effort to keep himself together.

There’s a sole tear trailing down his cheek when Gladio comes back with breakfast, the lack of Ebony hinting of the Shield’s not-so-secretive plot of having him sleep after eating.

The tear’s joined by another at first spoonful of oatmeal, then by yet another at the second.

The third, the fourth.

Gladio fetches a clean rag, makes no comment at all as the Advisor presses it against his face with a shudder.

“While we were raised at the Citadel, given opportunity, education, sustenance, shelter -- all we ever required and more, Prompto was...he was...” Ignis whispers like he’ll shatter if he dares speak any louder. “Is it wrong to be _grateful_ to have young Prompto’s company? Even though it won’t last, nor change a thing? I know it seems cruel and unfair, but I am.”

Gladio doesn’t interrupt, just waits patiently as the young man gathers a breath while wiping his face to no avail as the tears keep flowing.

“When I look into Prompto’s eyes and see how gods-be-damned relieved he is that I won’t harm him, or when he’s given something to eat. Something to _eat_ , Gladio, he views me like I’m an Astral come to life at just being given some _instant_ _oatmeal_ and treating it like it’s a _delicacy_.” His voice breaks, shoulders hunched in as he abandons both rag and tray to hug around himself. “And when...when I so much as put a finger on his hair, it’s like no one’s given him any _affection_ a day in his _life_ , the way he just stops whatever he’s doing to _savor_ it.”

Gladio’s at his side in the next blink, setting all obstacles aside to wrap his arms around Ignis, the weeping man taking him by surprise to hook his arms up his back as though to the Shield is all he has left to keep afloat.

“I’m _frightened_ , Gladiolus.” The secret is whimpered out into his ear, Ignis Scientia actually _whimpering_ while clutching the back of his leather jacket like no tomorrow. “I’m frightened I may not be able to keep this up, and I’m frightened for Noctis’s wellbeing as well. What if there comes a time where I must choose between--”

“ _Ignis_.”

It’s his moment for silence, taking a great, shuddering breath.

“Think you’re forgetting something else important.” Ignis makes an inquisitive noise of even more heartache that his intellectual mind has also forgotten. “Hate to break it to ya, but you’re only human.”

There’s a wet, ugly snort at that.

“That would be my problem, yes.”

“Well, lucky for you that you’ve got two other humans supporting you.” Gladio snorts back, his dear friend’s humor as dry as ever for crying himself ragged. “If-- _when_ \--there’s something you can’t handle by yourself, you let me and Noct lend you a hand, alright? And if that time comes where you gotta choose either kid, know that I’ve got the other one, simple as that. We’re a team, not a one man show.”

While Ignis mulls that over, he takes few minutes to compose the thoughts that’ve been on his mind all night long, ever since seeing true fear on the face of a child unrecognizable.

“And about...Prompto. I know I really fucked that up, but if there’s any chance at all he still wants anything to do with me, I’ll see what I can do. Anything at all. I get that it’s been pretty hard on you, Noct too, and I’m sorry.” Gladio pats his back, prompting him to pull away to meet sorrowful amber. “I mean it, Ignis. I’ve been making a decent amount of gil and after a couple more Hunts it oughtta be enough for two rooms at the motel for a couple nights. Sleep in some nice beds, take showers. Even got a Crow’s Nest right there so you don’t gotta worry about cooking. Figured it’d be good spot to hunker down when that storm hits, too. We can head out tomorrow before it comes.”

All Ignis can do is blindly reach for the rag, tears returning full force of their own accord.

“Hey now, no need for the waterworks. It’s nothing at all.” The Advisor vehemently shakes his head as Gladio reaches over for the cloth and hands it over. Even after wiping his face, he still refuses to believe that.

“That is not ‘nothing at all’, Gladiolus Amicitia. It’s incredibly thoughtful and I...I...” Ignis dries beneath his eyes once again, blinking back tears that just won’t quit after being bottled away since he was a boy and politics no place for displaying emotion. “I am so thankful to have you at my side. _Our_ sides. I truly, truly am.”

“Yeah, well. Still nothin’.” Gladio scratches at the back of his neck, rising to his feet with a cough to poorly hide bashfulness at earnest praise while making a beeline for the kitchen. “Your breakfast is gonna get cold. Better eat up.”

“Ah, that’s correct, I also have you to thank for breakfast as well.” Ignis smiles softly even at denial he’d hardly done much prep at all. Picking the tray up, he puts spoon back in hand before pausing. “The sausage you selected was well received by our little guest. It would seem Prompto still retains his adoration for spicy foods.”

“Huh, that right?” Gladio muses with a fond smile of his own, paging through the little notebook of collected recipes. “I’ll keep that in mind for lunch.”

“I’d be happy to lend you a hand.” Ignis offers only to be kindly waved off as the Shield peruses through their small collection of pots and pans before selecting the stockpot.

“I’d be happier if you go take a nap.” Gladio admits bluntly, moving on to check out what vegetables they’ve got stowed away and picking what’s needed. “Or try to rest, anyway. I’ve got all this handled, so don’t worry, alright? It’s not gonna be gourmet, but it at least won’t be Cup Noodle.”

Ignis hums, smile growing just a bit brighter while finishing up and rising to set the dishes in the sink with the rest. Before he can even fill it with water, the Shield’s playfully batting his hand away with a wooden spoon.

“I got it covered. Off to bed, Scientia.” He doesn’t get very far before Gladio clears his throat. “Hey, Iggy?”

“Mm?”

“Thanks for trusting me.”


	14. A Worthy Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A recap of previous chapters from Prompto's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We don't have enough pain in our lives, so here's a very, very long Prompto chapter because I didn't want to split it up. Sorry it's nothing new-new. That'll be next chapter, promise! Sometimes we just gotta have recap-like chapters such as these, and I hope you all still enjoy it ;^;
> 
> Thank you all for your love and support! Every little comment and kudos means so much!!!

 

 

Prompto’s mind drifts in a dreamless daze while anchored within Noct’s arms. The Lucian clutches him as tightly as he does in return, sticky face plastered against dark fabric. In the not-so-distant past he would’ve been terrified at being held so tightly against another person, corrections always followed by Guards and indistinguishable clones obediently inflicting pain as ordered by their superiors. Often times they’d attack him of their own accord, the flawless squadron turning against their fellow trooper after being collectively corrected due to his malfunctions despite their perfect performances. He’d deserved each and every physical blow for failing one training exercise after another, the weakest link that should’ve been decommissioned a long time ago.

But as Prompto’s come to learn through repetition, this isn’t the case with the Lucian. Noct does no such thing while once again having him engulfed by his whole being  -- except this time the top of his head feels rather wet. Regardless of that, it’s indescribable just how calming it is being held like this as though the firm pressure behind the embrace will make him whole if held long enough. His chest feels... _warm_ even though the older boy hasn’t said anything more, earlier phrases echoing in sleepy little ears that make just as much sense when heard while awake and alert.

 _Special_ to Noct, _rescued_ by Noct, _important_ to Noct -- to all of them.

The small soldier doesn’t understand how any of it can be true, but it’s still comforting to think about while on the edge of sleep, too drained to argue with himself that it’ll only last until they realize just how utterly worthless he is. None of this is really real, but it _feels_ real and warm enough, and that’s really all Prompto focuses on as he releases a shudder of a breath. He sinks further into the warmth that’s Noct, unafraid for nothing will hurt him ever again. A hand joins the older boy’s upon his back yet he doesn’t stir despite distinct familiarity, absorbing the additional comfort provided while his fatigued mind tries to place the owner.

“ _Prompto? Can you look at me?_ ” A quiet, accented voice murmurs just over his shoulder, prompting the child to part his face from Noct’s torso to peer over at the soft speaker.

_Ignis._

Warmth blooms in his chest once more at the return of the trusted Scientist as relief washes over him. Prompto looks as ordered but the glasses-wearing man doesn’t do the same in return, instead clearing his throat while adjusting his spectacles. The hand lingers over his face a beat longer than necessary and the warm feeling flickers. Ignis must be pensive over something and Prompto bites his lip while frantically trying to think back of what he’s done to warrant this reaction.

“I see you kept our friend Noct some company after all. You have my thanks, little one.”

That content feeling in his chest is gone, doused by frigid recollection that instantly puts Prompto on edge despite Ignis moving on to tenderly wipe his face clean. The action is as soothing as the first time with the towel and he starts to sniffle even as the gentle touch resumes up into his hair. He’d kept the Lucian company with the pure intention of asking _why_ he rescued him and to repay the gesture, but the boy has done nothing to fix his human pains. In fact, all he’s done is make a bigger mess of things as per usual, like making Noct cry and hold him despite how much he must be hurting from rescuing his worthless self. Prompto doesn’t understand how this _doesn’t_ make either of them angry, Ignis insisting that he’d been a very great help to them. Bottom lip nervously trapped by teeth, he can’t even bring himself to so much as glance upwards to see the anger that _must_ be there, whispering weakly that he didn’t help.

“You did. You helped so much, buddy. You help more than you know.” Noct reassures while sounding just as honest as the Scientist, but all it does is make him fidget all the more.

“ _B-But.” I really_ **_didn’t._ **

Prompto seals his mouth shut before the verbal retaliation can escape, squeezing Leo on impulse as though the plush has the ability to make everything okay with but a tight embrace. _Ignis_ is the one that’s done everything -- the first that checked on Noct, made him comfortable, and brought him human food to eat. All the child’s accomplished is curling up on the Lucian’s lap after causing further distress, immune to their conversation as his anxious mind whirs over praise he’s done absolutely nothing to deserve. He isn’t like the plush animal that fulfills its purpose by doing nothing. While it’s a relief to not have them angry with him and lose their comforting touches as a result, it also isn’t.

It’s _terrifying_.

How many malfunctions will it take until he’s corrected? Are they keeping track in a secret report that’ll be compiled against him all at once? What are they even testing for? Will everything stop without warning once he’s reached the cut-off limit, taken into the laboratory to be restrained and corrected for every mistake? Or will he not be corrected at all, and instead be slated for instant decommissioning? Would his specialness to Noct rescue him, then, too? Or will the Lucian finally realize that the complete failure of a trooper holds no importance to him whatsoever and therefore isn’t worth saving? Will Ignis be the one to--to--

“Hey, Prom?”

This is it.

Noct wants him gone.

Prompto’s fragile heart shatters at rejection, broken pieces unsure of what he’s done wrong yet again as he reluctantly yet so obediently complies. Another sanctuary he’s grown too attached to too fast has been ripped from him just like that. He should’ve known better. Shiva, he _does_ know better, but he’s stupid, so stupid to have risked believing that Noct would ever, ever, _ever_ want--

Long fingers encircle his branded wrist.

The boy’s still so foolishly naive to think it means what he desperately hopes it does. Even when it is, he’s still overwhelmed with relief when Noct says he doesn’t have to go in that gentle voice of his. Prompto can stay right next to him -- if he _wants_. He didn’t know he could ever _want_ anything to begin with, let alone be _permitted_ to have it. Prompto’s never wanted anything more than to remain at Noct’s side, as strange and sudden as that desire is to be with those he’s come to trust in such a short time.

That is, if the Scientist will grant him permission to allow him to do so, timid violet eyes attempting once more to make contact while anxiously awaiting confirmation. The trooper _must_ hear it in order to believe it, keeping so very still as Ignis’s face is hidden once again to adjust the perfectly balanced glasses atop his nose. It would be very helpful for him if he does stay with Noct, given no other option unlike previous predicaments. Prompto understands. Ignis is a vital human resource that performs many operations and has far more important duties to attend to than waste time with an obsolete trooper. Of course it would be helpful for him to keep the Lucian company so he won’t be disrupting the Scientist’s work. Prompto _understands_.

It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt though.

Doesn’t mean there isn’t an empty hole in his heart in the shape of Ignis, the glasses-wearing man the first ever to find a home there. Prompto wants to stay at his side, too, as incredibly selfish as that is. He’s fortunate enough to have Leo, Noct, and to be in this bizarre place of soft, warm safety and all of its comforts -- yet none of it means anything if Ignis isn’t there with him.

“ _You...You’ll be back...?”_ Prompto carefully repeats his earlier words, hoping once again for the confirmation to be in his favor even though Ignis had just said it himself. He has to hear it, to be absolutely certain that he’ll return and ease the hurt of inevitable departure.

“Yes, just like before. I promise.”

Ignis is right. He’d just been away and he had come back just like he’d told the child before. He’ll be back. Prompto hasn’t been permitted to go to him if he’s in need, but _he’ll be back_. Little sparks flicker back to life in his chest, that warm feeling restored and quelling anxious malfunctions as he crawls over to reunite with Noct’s right side. The Lucian calls out as the Scientist stands and reminds him of his breakfast before leaving.

It’s just him and Noct now, just like before.

And the silence, just like before.

Prompto remains still at Noct’s side as requested, nervously absorbing every minor movement of the Lucian’s limited body language. His gaze lingers to the outside before sighing and shaking his head, causing the child to hesitantly nibble at his lip. He must be angry and whether or not it’s because of the broken boy, will always be taken out on him in the end. Noct had said ‘no one will hurt him like this ever again’, but he’s been corrected in so many new ways. So many different methods of severity that never had him ‘learn his lesson’ for long before being dragged right back into the Scientists’ laboratories after the Guards vented their anger of his inability to complete the simplest of orders.

They’ll just discover new ways to make him bleed is all, like the vast amount of scars taking up near every inch of skin on his too-little body.

Noct stretches forward and it takes everything Prompto has to keep still even if the Lucian decides to make a grab for him, squeezing violet eyes shut in expectation of a hit. That’s what he deserves for not helping fix him in the first place despite being informed of how helpful he’d performed when he’d really done the complete opposite.

All he hears is the clinking of plates and bowls atop a tray, peeking a curious eye open at Noct’s pained features while setting it on his lap.

_Oh._

Noct has his breakfast to eat, slowly using a ‘spoon’ to scoop up the ‘oatmeal’ with a trembling arm. Should he assist him? That sounds like a helpful thing to do. Noct is hurt and the breakfast will ease his pains like it had with his own stomach, making him feel warm and sleepy while held in Ignis’s arms. The unpleasant ‘scrambled eggs’, the tasty ‘oatmeal’, the cool ‘milk’, and the spicy...spicy. Prompto doesn’t remember the name of the three links on a dish, only that his mouth waters at the memory of how they’d made his tongue burn from the spicy. A _good_ burn, unlike the kind the Guards would do with miniature smoking white sticks lit on an end.

He wonders if Noct will maybe, maybe permit him to have just a bite, too engrossed by that fantasy to hear what he’d said.

“Hey, Prom?” Prompto snaps into sitting up straight, unaware he’d been leaning so heavily over the tray while instinctively holding Leo close against his chest. If Noct hadn’t read his mind already, he can definitely get an idea when the small boy’s traitorous, gluttonous stomach growls. He sets the spoon down and Prompto holds his breath, willing his rebellious tummy to be silent before getting him into more trouble. “Didn’t you get something to eat? Before I fell?”

Prompto chews at his lip as though it’ll trick his mind into thinking he’s eating and be quiet. Fidgets with one of Leo’s wings.

“ _...yes.”_ He whispers softly, sadly like all the times he’d been mocked before for being hungry, though Ignis had done nothing of the sort when giving him delicious human food to eat. He’s already eaten more than he’s been granted in his entire short life in just two meals. This is just a test, Prompto is sure of it, the worst kind of having to ignore the yearning in his stomach and deny the food right in front of his face like a perfect little soldier.

He wants it, but he _can’t_.

“Are you still hungry?”

Prompto _whimpers_. Noct never ceases to amaze him while gesturing to the whole entire meal with the offer that the child can have whatever he wants. _Whatever he wants._ That’s a test if Prompto has ever, ever seen one, chewing frantically at his lip at the very slim possibility that it isn’t. Ignis has given him food, has explained orders so thoroughly and never corrected him like he’s always known. Noct has...has _rescued_ him, and he holds an unexplained importance to the older boy that won’t let him be _hurt like this_ _ever again_. But Noct. Noct can’t really, really mean to _give_ him human food, a far greater resource than the Leo he’s already been given with an unknown history as well. There’s no way a Lucian can be willing to treat his enemy nicer than his own allies have and wanting to remain at his side in return.

Once again does Prompto not have a clue what’s _real_ anymore.

All that’s real is the warm feeling in his chest and the hunger in his belly, the latter winning over all the reason and logic he’s ever known as his gaze looks longingly over each breakfast item.

“ _I-I...I can...?”_ There’s no hidden malice on Noct’s face, nothing reading any ill intentions except how his nightsky eyes glisten at the question he shouldn’t be asking to begin with.

“Yes, you can. Whatever you want, buddy.”

Prompto gulps. Bites his own lip. Remembers why he’s here and that this is _Noct’s_ food. Noct _needs_ to eat in order to fix himself from the pain that Prompto caused in the first place.

“ _But this...it’s yours...I ca-can’t.”_

He knows better than to take what isn’t his and has the scars to prove it from desperate, idiotic attempts to scarf banned rations down whole. Even his nails serve as proof, chewed to the bit to stave off starvation.

“Okay yeah, it’s _for_ me, but I want to share with you, so it’s okay, okay?” Noct gingerly takes his neglected left hand off of Leo and into his own, gently opening the nervous little fist and setting a pronged utensil on his small palm before folding clammy fingers back over with the same delicacy. “Alright, bud. Do you want some scrambled eggs?”

Prompto immediately shakes his head before he realizes it, unable to process the fact that he’s really been granted permission to have _whatever he wants_ of _Noct’s_ food. Noct _wants_ him to have it. To _share_ it. Is that what it means, to be important to someone that they _want_ to share items that belong to them? The little child soldier doesn’t understand. If he had rations, he’d give them up to a superior because of rank. Though Noct is a Lucian, the Magitek Trooper doubts he would outrank him over a simple fact. Noct is a human. Prompto isn’t. No amount of them treating him as such will ever change that.

But for being a soulless monster of a machine, he still really, really wants the spicy.

Not the toast, not the oatmeal.

“ _The um...it’s...”_ Prompto can’t recall the proper name for the three links of meat on the plate, timidly pointing at them with the pronged utensil. “ _T_ _he spicy.”_

 _‘Sausage_ ’. Right, that’s what Ignis had called them and just like with the Scientist, Noct is also amused by his liking of spicy things. He doesn’t think his preference would have changed from the first and last time he had consumed them from his breakfast, collecting all three sausages onto the utensil with little mouth opened wide.

“--hey, don’t do that!”

**Wrong.**

That’s **wrong.**

The utensil drops from his grip as though electrocuted, whole body recoiling to get away as if shoved over backwards by an invisible entity. Terror in its purest form courses through his veins, heart hammering away at ribs as if could break free from its cage and and flee like he wishes he could. Wild violet locks on Noct’s hand reaching for him and Prompto bites back a screech while flinching, banging his head against the canvas floor in a bow.

“ _I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry!”_ The child blubbers without breath, inhaling with a choked hiccup at the hit that’s certain to come any second now. The correction he should’ve gotten a long time ago.

“Prom...”

“ _I’m sorry!”_ Prompto cries out though it won’t mean anything in the end. Apologies are meaningless, as worthless as he is. For every one he’s made, there’s an scar etched on his body. A bruise, a cut, the lash of a whip.

The only solace he has is maybe, maybe Noct won’t make it painful. He’s been nice thus far, as undeserving as he is for mercy. No, he deserves the worst correction of them all for a broken machine that’s no longer worth repairing. The sentence given to clones that never come back afterwards.

 _Decommission_.

Noct orders Prompto to look at him and he’s given no choice but to obey like his unwavering obedience will make any difference now. Help him now. _Rescue_ him now. The best thing for him to be is his best like he’s always tried and failed so hard to be, little frame so very tense and so very afraid while at attention. Shiva, he wishes for a lot of things he could’ve had first before this moment, like the spicy sausage, holding Leo tight, sitting on Noct’s lap before making him angry, and _best_ of all Ignis’s comfort -- except he would’ve been angry, too. Prompto couldn’t even stay at Noct’s side without screwing it up, after all, and there’s no one to blame but his own incompetence.

He wonders who will take care of Leo when he’s gone, or if Noct will --

“You’re okay. I’m not mad at you, aright? I’m not mad, and I’m not ever going to hurt you even if I was.” Prompto blinks, eyes as wide as the plates and tension breaking away at Noct taking yet another sledgehammer to what’s always been set in stone. Anger yields pain, but Noct isn’t angry. He’s not...not angry with him. It feels like the ground has gone out beneath the blond and he’s falling, yet at the same time it’s as though a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

Noct really, really won’t hurt him, not even if he does get angry with him.

But he...he did... ** _wrong_** **.**

Prompto doesn’t...doesn’t... _doesn’t understand._

“You can still eat, I promise, you just gotta cut ‘em up into bite-size pieces first or you’ll choke. Didn’t Ignis do that for you?”

Prompto nods from what seems like eons away, floating far from the reality he can’t believe _is_ reality. All he’s capable of is staring, utterly transfixed by the Lucian that demonstrates what he’s to do to the sausages instead of trying to swallow them all at once. Just calmly cutting them with the pronged utensil, simple as that, not screaming or referring to him with cruel words spat in his face. Noct lifts it with a piece of sausage attached, raised in his direction. Not throwing or demanding or anything harsh.

Just gentle like his voice.

“It’s okay now, Prom. I know you’re hungry, so please?”

If Noct hadn’t earned his trust before, he certainly has it now. Prompto comes forward, slowly but surely, just close enough to take the offered bite of sausage into his mouth. He chews just as slowly, savoring the spice that infiltrates his tastebuds with the buzzing burn.

It _is_ a pretty good spicy.

“ _Can I...um...more?”_ Prompto’s asking before he knows it, doesn’t even consider previous times where he would’ve been corrected for asking for more because the Lucian isn’t like that at all. Noct is as kind and sincere as the soft smile on his face that reminds him they’re all his as he crawls over and gathers Leo back on his lap before being handed the plate.

Noct is why the warm sensation is back in his chest, expanding further at praise of doing a good job at obediently cutting the sausages into the correct sizes. Noct is why his lips twitch all funny, corners tugging upwards just a bit. Noct is why the child wants to stay at his side for as long as he’s able, to keep the warm feeling inside that makes him feel...feel like he does with Ignis. He doesn’t know the word for it, but it’s nice and good, and so he doesn’t worry too much about it.

Prompto picks up the pronged utensil and begins to eat.

 

* * *

 

There’s a light knock on the fabric flap after their breakfast is gone, Noct breaking the peaceful silence by granting permission for the outsider to enter. Prompto curiously peers up and senses his lips tilt upwards a little at the welcome sight of Ignis returning just as promised, warmth blossoming like an outside drill without a blizzard. Once again do they thank him for keeping Noct company and the praise goes straight to his cheeks as though too close to the campfire, shyly hiding his face behind Leo. He mumbles protest that isn’t as strong as before, having an inkling that just maybe he did earn it, just a little bit.

Ignis simply hums as the little blond then watches him lay out the mat he’d brought with him. It looks firm, yet far more comfortable than those used for physical combat training. Unease begins to settle in his stomach, anxious mind wondering as to what the Scientist could have planned to test him on. He mentally frets over it as the glasses-wearing man rises back over to them, kneeling down in front of the emptied dishes and gazes over to the lone plate across from the boy.

A slight frown forms on his lips and Prompto’s fidgeting before Ignis addresses him. Noct had permitted the child to have his food, but Ignis had been the one to bring it for _him_ . Ignis informs him that it’s _alright_ he helped Noct with his breakfast, but overwhelming guilt still eats away at him. Swallows him up whole.

He’s still a little hungry, but quickly shakes his head when asked if he is. Prompto won’t make an error like that again. He can’t...can’t let Ignis be angry with him, not after he already promised to make sure he wouldn’t go hungry or thirsty in this foreign place. He’s had his ‘breakfast’ and some of Noct’s. Asking for more will only get him into more trouble.

But Noct. Noct _wants_ him to tell them if he is. That’s an order, but Prompto doesn’t know what the right answer is. Admitting he’s a little hungry will make Ignis mad after all the food he’s already fed Prompto with -- more than he’s honestly seen and had in all his short existence. He _can’t_ ask for more. Denying his hunger, however, will only make his performances worse while clawing at his empty belly. It’ll make them angry if he lies. Tells the truth. There’s no right answer except his silence, biting at his quivering lip while averting both pairs of eyes.

Just the impossible dream of...of being granted human food just by...by _letting_ them know, and...and _receiving_ it when he never was before...

Prompto doesn’t know what to think except he’s unworthy of such a thing, sniffling and hiccuping into the yellow fabric of Leo’s head. Noct apologizes to him, and it’s an additional concept he can’t comprehend. There’s so much he doesn’t understand and neither Scientist nor Lucian has an answer for him when he asks what for, only that the older boy scrubs beneath his eyes while the other is quiet. He pushes his glasses up and keeps his hand there, making his shrouded face impossible to read.

Ignis is going to leave again.

The child can tell before he even says it, asking if he can continue to stay with Noct as he has been. Prompto is more than willing to do whatever it takes to make Ignis happy, he really is. He likes being with Noct, he truly does. He just...wishes Ignis could stay, too. Prompto knows better than to ask, though, even on the off chance that maybe, maybe Ignis would really stay if he did. The glasses-wearing man is a Scientist and his work holds top priority over the selfish boy. He can’t expect the grown-up to drop everything just to stay with him because he selfishly desires to be held. It’s good enough that Ignis _will_ come back again just like times previous, and that he’ll be making something spicy.

Prompto would like that very much, finding that his departure isn’t all that bad with that to look forward to on top of Ignis being back with him and Noct. He hopes he’ll stay a little longer, too, before the pattern continues of him leaving again. Nodding his approval, his lips twitch as the Scientist cards a hand through his hair, filling him with that warm feeling. Content, the little blond watches as he then directs his focus over to the Lucian, cautiously assisting him with removing his shirt and handing something over with a canteen.

He sees it then when Noct is gently guided away from the fabric wall, sees the very source of his debilitating pain. Sees pale skin slashed across the Lucian’s backside, deep and jagged along his spine. Sees the massive, indisputable scar carved out by a daemon.

Sees what he **_caused_**.

 _“Noct’s hurt.”_ Tears sting at the corners of horrified violet, bottom lip quivering fiercely for feeling so weak and afraid. Guilty. More guilt than he’s ever felt in his life. “ _I-I hurt him. I hurt Noct.”_

Ignis immediately counters that this wasn’t him, that it’s alright, but it **_isn’t_**. He still did **_this_ ** to **_Noct_**. The guilt screams within him at each little step towards Ignis as ordered, watery vision transfixed at what **_he_ ** caused. Squeezing Leo against his chest does nothing to bring comfort, too caught up in trying to prevent a malfunctioning breakdown at what **_he_ ** caused _._ The Scientist begins to offer an explanation he doesn’t **_deserve_** , gives an apology he doesn’t **_deserve_**. Ignis then pauses for a very long moment, face once again obscured by the action of pressing at his glasses and Prompto grasps at his shirt without meaning, as though it’ll tether him from sinking into inescapable despair. The explanation is resumed and Prompto doesn’t understand even though he’d heard nearly the very same from the Lucian himself.

Noct had rescued him despite knowing the pain he would endure because he saw Prompto _worth_ it -- him, a defective failure that only excels at malfunctioning. Noct had welcomed the unimaginable pain to personally ensure that Prompto would be _safe_. He’s not even worthy of the very air required to breathe, and yet Noct had sacrificed his health to rescue his stupid, stupid self that’d ran away because he was so damn sure they were going to...to...

They still might, could at any time, and yet Noct had still...still...

They keep treating him like...like...

But he’s _not_.

Prompto’s not...he’s _not..._

Ignis places his hands upon his shoulders and it’s all he can do to focus on the grounding contact as his tiny, barren existence is uprooted from beneath him.

He has _worth._ He’s _worth_ the world. He’s _worthy_ of nourishment, of shelter, and of those that will ‘cherish’ him as he is -- whatever that last term means. Ignis understands that he doesn’t understand and he truly doesn’t. He can’t even wrap his head around the very concept that he, a useless, inhuman machine, has _worth_ and is _worthy_ of all he’d been excessively reprimanded for otherwise. Prompto doubts he’ll ever ‘realize’ it after he’s ‘grown’. He hasn’t ‘grown’ in a very long time, being not only the weakest trooper out of hundreds, but also the smallest. The child opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He doesn’t know what to say, where to even begin to protest that the Scientist is the one who doesn’t understand because he’s worth _less_. Prompto’s not even worth the tender smile on Ignis’s face, not worth the gentle hand that runs through his hair, slow and soothing.

It’s just. Too much.

Everything is too much and Prompto doesn’t know anymore.

Doesn’t know what to think, to do, to believe, to say.

All he does is hone in on the most basic, yearning instinct that takes hold of his fragile, broken heart like his little fists take hold of Ignis’s shirt.

Prompto _cries_.

Ignis holds him, comforts him with a hand circling around his spine, and Prompto cries over the comfort that fragile, broken heart’s been sobbing for. Prompto cries until there’s nothing left, loose tears streaming down sticky cheeks as Ignis lifts him up into his arms before settled next to Noct, nice and warm and comforting. He sniffles weakly at the blanket securely tucked over him and Leo, bites back a wobbly whimper when remembering he’s going to leave. Prompto pleads with distraught violet, silently begs for Ignis not to go, not yet.

He doesn’t go, not yet.

Prompto never sees the unbearable sorrow masked behind his hand, never sees Ignis come closer to tears than he ever has in his life while soothing the heartsick child to sleep. All he sees is how much he’s worth for Ignis to stay until the dreams lure him away.

Maybe...Maybe he really is worth something, after all.


	15. A Mother's Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all these years, Gladio's never forgotten his mother's love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what, guys? Guess what, guess what, guess what. It's Chapter 15. One could say it's Chapter *XV*, ehehe.
> 
> I actually really like this one as well and so I hope you do, too! Gladio always needs more love, wouldn't you agree :)
> 
> Thank you all as always for your love and support <3

 

 

There was a time before the birth of a Prince in need of his Shield. 

A time before meeting the polite, well-mannered boy with clever wit and grown-up glasses destined become both Advisor and Gladio’s most trusted childhood friend. A time before selecting his very first sword and those rare occasions of training alongside his father from dawn to dusk. A time before comprehending his Amicitia birthright of lifelong devotion to defend the Crown ‘til his dying breath.

There was a time where Gladiolus Amicitia had been a complete and utter mama’s boy, no more than a toddler barely above his mother’s knee and chubby little fists full of an apron embroidered with floral namesakes.

His young world had consisted of nothing but Carna’s love and attention, of nothing but being right at her side as though the umbilical cord had never been cut. Wherever she was in the Manor, there he was likely on her lap or held within her arms with her chestnut braid in his mouth. More often than not, the pair would be found in the kitchen, afternoons spent with messy hands, warm smiles, and infectious laughter. Hours of quality mother-son bonding time were made over the culinary creations not for themselves, but donated to various charities and shelters. When thanked for their aid, Carna would politely decline, insisting she was “simply spending the afternoon with her ‘Flower’” and nurturing his impressionable nature to become compassionate, understanding, and selfless towards those at their most vulnerable -- namely the young and elderly. Though the boy’s fate would lie in becoming the Prince’s Shield, she wished for him to be a Shield of the People as well, to protect those in need. While true, Gladiolus was destined to become a fierce warrior like his father, his large heart would be forged with love. To not only have physical prowess, but also humanity. A leader on the battlefield. A role model to look up to. Everything the newborn Noctis would need to succeed, as a brother first and a retainer second whenever possible.

And most importantly, for Gladio to become a fine young man Carna would be proud to call her son.

Clarus had been there, too, of course, when he could. The memory-making moments spent with his mother helped lessen the hurt each and every time the Shield had leave to be with their King. Though the young Gladio didn’t see all that much of his father, the man had made it up with his stories. He’d tell tales of a time before his son’s birth, of a heroic young Prince and his trusty Shield, as well as other companions. Both parents had promised the little boy would have adventurous stories of his own to tell them about someday -- as well as his baby sister due in a few months’ time.

On the cusp of age eight, Iris Amicitia was born into the world as their mother left it, lost to unforeseen complications like the young Prince’s mother, Aulea. He’d had a choices to make -- to either evade the Manor and its’ occupants like his grieving father, to despise his newborn sister for stealing their mother away, or continue Carna’s legacy of nurturing the weak and vulnerable.

Gladio had picked up the wailing bundle that was his baby sister and sang the lullaby that she’d never hear from their mother -- not only because it’d been what she would have wanted, but also what _he_ wanted. The big brother swore on that day to be his little sister’s Shield and cherish her with the same love their mother had given him -- to raise Iris with that same compassion, understanding, and selflessness. To become a dedicated young woman Carna would’ve been proud to call her daughter, just like her son that she’d also never see grow into a man. He liked to think she could, though, with Iris safely secured in her bassinet while Jared would helpfully instruct on how to prepare the baby’s bottle, the family butler having taken up the mantle of fatherhood in Clarus’s absence.

It’d been a wakeup call from their King to remind the Shield of his children in need of their father, reminisce of a near identical conversation after the unexpected death of his own wife five years prior. Noctis had needed Regis. Gladiolus and Iris needed him.

Clarus had finally come home for more than a late night’s rest and early morning departure. He’d finally held Iris, the infant curiously patting at the stranger’s face that’d begun to cry. He’d finally hugged his son that’d taken on what were _his_ responsibilities, those that a boy his age never should have had to and after losing his mother. The so-called father had been too damn blinded by grief to realize that he’d been suffering, too, but remained strong, stronger than the veteran Shield and hero of tales.

Strong with qualities not taught by the blade, but with the power of a mother’s love.

During the fifteen years after her passing, Gladio had become the swordsman under his family’s oath, honor and duty bound to Noctis for life. He’d sworn another vow to Carna Amicitia, the very same when he’d held Iris for the very first time. He, Gladiolus Amicitia, swore to be a Shield not just to the Prince, but for the People as well -- and he’d kept it, protecting his family from harm and nurturing allies with his gentle giant of a heart.

The ghosts of childhood memories are all he has left of her, and by listening closely to the nostalgia resonating within his kindred spirit, she’s there with him.

Gladio sits by the fire, peeling Caem carrots and Leiden potatoes.

_He’s five years-old again, snug against his mama’s back with little hands enclosed in hers, soft voice whispering instruction and praise while gently guiding the peeler down the carrot’s bumpy surface._

Task completed, Gladio brings them back to the kitchen counter, briefly checking on the garula sirloin searing in the oven. Returning to the cutting board and chef’s knife, he resumes the next step with an addition of mild Leiden peppers and wild onions.

_Carna has him standing on the stepstool at her side, amber eyes just barely peeking over the countertop as she carefully cuts each vegetable into appropriate, bite-size pieces. It’s the first time he’s offered to try under her supervision and careful hand, oddly-shaped cuts made with a child’s sheer determination to make his mother proud._

It isn’t the infamous onions that bring tears to his eyes, swiping at the tears with the back of his hand. Everything chopped to relative perfection, they’re deposited into the stockpot before once again taking a look at the sirloin now seared golden brown.

_Gladio watches from a safe distance as she puts on oven mitts and retrieves the pan from the oven, setting it atop the stove. Carna prepares the rest of the meal before his eyes, nestling the meat within the crockpot and vegetables. Setting it to a simmer, she places the lid back on, smiling proudly at her sweet son._

_“Thank you for your help, my Flower. I love you.”_

“I love you, too, mama.” He murmurs though none can hear him, wiping once more beneath his eyes. The gentle breeze teases dark chestnut locks just like how she used to, whispering as though a secret for only his ears.

A mother’s love is unyielding, intangible even to death to reach her children. It’s the kind of love that Prompto’s been robbed of, denied by the sick bastards that dared lay their hands on the kid. As Gladio had mentioned to Ignis, he’d severely doubted anyone had told the boy that he’s loved before, and as the caregiver had tearfully confessed, hadn’t experienced it, either. No one’s held him, no one’s fed him, no one’s so much as _played with his hair_.

All they, whoever the fuck they are -- _were_ \-- did nothing but abuse and neglect Prompto.

_Prompto._

That scrawny, scrappy gunslinger that’s held his own with on numerous occasions while observing the battlefield and allies with eyes as sharp as a hawk. Just like the Shield, but with the ability to be everywhere at once with a bullet. He’s ever the optimistic, even while cracking jokes to boost morale with a cheery smile to lift their spirits after facing swarms of unruly daemons.

Except sometimes.

Sometimes -- _a lot_ of times -- Prompto’s jumping at every bump in the night and complaining of cramped dungeons. Gladio would always give him shit for it, yelling at him to knock it off and get over it already. There were monsters and the like crawling in the dark, around every twist and turn. It was just anxiety and nerves with a dash of claustrophobia. Prompto would be fine in the end because it was nothing they hadn’t dealt with before -- except it wasn’t. Childhood trauma was alive and real inside his head, clutching to him after Six only knows how many years he’d endured of it.

And Gladio, Shield to the People and big brother of their party, had given him _shit about it_. Didn’t protect him like he should’ve. Didn’t keep his anger in check like he should’ve. He’d told Noct that none of them are at fault for Prompto, that someone else tormented the kid to the point of pissing his pants at someone screaming at him. Gladio hadn’t _known_ , and yet he hadn’t taken his fears seriously. It was just Prompto being Prompto.

‘Prompto being Prompto’ meaning surviving a horrendous case of child abuse and neglect that understandably affects him to this day, triggered by something as basic as tight spaces and the doctor’s office when he’d needed a physical done for Crownsguard. Prompto being Prompto, just shutting up just like that when Gladio would call him out on it like a _jackass,_ as unintentional as it was because he sure as hell didn’t know, just assumed it to be another one of his quirks. Prompto being Prompto, just taking it and dishing out smiles afterwards like the Shield hadn’t just thrown his trauma back in his face like it wasn’t a big deal.

Gladio might as well have carved out another scar on his body and spat on it. He still would’ve found a way for it to be his fault anyway, selflessly apologizing to the Shield for being a burden and that he should’ve been stronger.

He’s wrong.

Prompto Argentum is the strongest guy he’s ever known, and if he still wants anything to do with him after this is all over, Gladio’s gonna make damn sure he knows it and that he’s loved, too. Astrals, does he _need_ to hear it. If anyone ever fit the definition of weak and vulnerable, it’s the kid, bleeding the gentle giant’s heart dry with the ingrained desire to protect and nurture and being unable to do so directly.

All the Shield can do is quietly step into the tent to his three companions fast asleep, thanking the Six for small blessings.

Noct is splayed out shirtless on his stomach, sheening with sweat from his medicine’s side effect of overheating. The daemon claw marks slashed across his backside are stark against pallid skin, a reminder of how he’d cheated death as a child, but at a price. Though like with Prompto, there’d also been nothing he could’ve done from across the sea those twelve years ago, and would’ve easily met his demise by the vile Marilith. Just like now there’s also nothing he can do but allow his Prince to rest, watching over him while he snores and twitches on occasion. They’re a lot alike, mothers lost in childbirth with fathers betrayed by those they’d trusted, fighting to the very last, gruesome breath. Gladio’s tough on Noct when he needs a good shove in the right direction, yet he can’t help the sense of pride at seeing him act like a true King. Dealing with his best friend reliving hell hasn’t been easy on him, but the Prince’s been heeding his Shield’s advice and Gladio couldn’t be prouder.

Ignis, to all surprise, is actually resting, laying on his left side with glasses folded and set within reach. The Advisor is where he’s most comfortable, on the end of to his charges to which the Shield has no doubt he’d checked over before allowing sleep to claim him with sage green ever watchful. The shadows beneath his eyes still linger, but his breathing is steady and facial features a clean slate from earlier anguish, and Gladio couldn’t be more relieved.

Between the two sleeping young men resides the most precious treasure tucked safely away -- or at least at one point, the little body an outstretched tangle of limbs with one fist gripping Ignis’s shirt and the other wrapped around Noct’s little finger. There’s a faded old chocobo plush Gladio has no memory of them having, but is grateful for its presence nonetheless. However it’d been obtained -- suspicions locked on the chocobo fanatic of the group -- the plush is certainly welcome. Cherished, too, by the looks of the worn-out thing, clearly having stuck with Prompto for years to the point of accompanying them on the roadtrip --

Gladio banishes the thought before it can spiral out of control, but the guilt’s already seeped in. With all the shit he’s given the blond for scaring so easily, of course he’d never seen the toy before. That’d just have been adding gasoline to the fire of being the world’s biggest asshole to traumatized companion. They’re really, really going to have a talk when the time magic wears off.

Right after the gentle giant gives Prompto a hug -- only if he wants.

If he’s not...not afraid of him.

Gladio quietly gets down on his knees before the sleeping boy, hands hovering over the spare blanket kicked aside in subconscious quest to seek out both caregivers. His grip shakes, inching across the frail, feeble frame that beneath that maroon top, is scarred and beaten like someone’s personal punching bag.

Right there, the child-sized Prompto sleeps peacefully, absorbing the warmth and love of those surrounding him. Right there, all Gladio sees is that expression taking a sharp one-eighty, panicking and screeching with tears like the Shield’s going to murder him. To the child, he’s a big scary monster with a booming voice, no different than his abuser. Abuser _s_. It’s a snowball’s chance in Mount Ravatogh to prove he’s a giant as gentle as they come, a big brother that’d give everything for even a fraction of his trust and sharing the love his mother had raised him with. Gladio knows he can do it. Knows how much this Prompto would bloom like a wilting flower bud given sunlight after living an eternity in the dark.

The Shield runs cold at sight of ink branding the kid’s right wrist, recalling having snatched it angrily in his blinding rage and unaware of the massive damage he’d inflicted on dwindled sanity. He can’t risk hurting him again.

He...He _can’t_.

The blanket drops half-draped over the child, hands withdrawing as though the fabric’s burned him. Whether or not Prompto’s woken up, Gladio doesn’t stick around to see.

It’s better if he stays away.

He’ll only hurt him if he doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Carna' is short for 'Carnation', a flower famous for representing mothers :)


	16. A Moment's Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis gets a nap and eases Gladio's conscience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A teeny tiny reprieve before the good stuff.
> 
> We've reached a milestone of over a thousand kudos!!! That's a lot of love! I don't know if I'll have another chapter up before this year is over, but I hope every single one of you has a wonderful holiday and a happy new year :D
> 
> Let's fill it with tears, shall we?

 

 

While Ignis Scientia isn’t the napping type due to a rigorous upbringing, he’s not one to let the Shield’s wish for rest go to waste. Requesting the hardworking Advisor to drop everything and leave all matters in the capable hands of a trustworthy Gladio, however, cannot be obliged in good conscience. Quietly maneuvering his sleeping bag next to snoozing Prince and child-sized ally, he silently sits atop plush canvas before retrieving his phone. Blankly staring at the device’s dimmed screen, his research into recent studies of child psychology pertaining to severe abuse and neglect is short-lived.

In the past, Ignis would’ve been able to digest the critical information with ease, complex reports no different than the stacks of paperwork he’d once perused daily. Now his brain pounds within the confines of his skull as though aflame from the aftermath of burning out, wincing while setting his phone aside to press palms against his aching temple. He’d been well-versed in handling posttraumatic stress due to his Prince and Crownsguard training as had Gladio, yet his expertise holds not even a candle to the inferno engulfing their morale. This particular case is excruciatingly severe, a miracle he’d not only endured, but had grown into a selfless young man with effortless smiles and immeasurable kindness.

While they were raised together in a safe environment with their every need tended to, Prompto had had _nothing._ Nothing but _himself_ until Leo had been acquired through means unknown, the plush threadbare from serving for years as the traumatized child’s security blanket up until present day, buried deep in his travel bag by only Noct’s knowledge. As if _embarrassed_. As if they’ve provided plentiful reason for him to feel _ashamed_. Eyes stinging, Ignis pinches the bridge of his nose with a sharp inhale, nearly jabbing his eyes with forgotten glasses left in his shirt’s pocket for safekeeping. For once his vision is flawless without them, as blurred as it is by the threat of tears, clarity crystal clear at sight of the tiny survivor sleeping so peacefully despite suffering inhumane brutality. _Their_ Prompto, no more than a little boy tucked in with that treasured plush chocobo and next to Noct whom has earned his invaluable trust -- past, present, and future.

It hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since their encounter with the time entity, yet it feels as though Ignis has aged a millennium for each revelation. It certainly seems that way by his error of not heeding Gladio’s warning. He’d stretched himself too thin, forgetful of the fact that he’s “only human” as the Shield had bluntly reminded him as he’d wept into his shoulder. A human with the support of two others that care deeply for him as he does in return, and there’s no beginning to explain how grateful the Advisor is for them.

Especially for Gladiolus Amicitia.

It’s no small feat at all to vanquish a slew of harrowing Hunts by one’s self, no matter the powerhouse of a swordsman’s prowess. There are days where Ignis finds himself unworthy of the close friendship they’ve held since childhood, shared fates sealed together by destiny’s hand to safeguard their young Prince, to remain not only at his side but also at one another’s. Their shared bond is indefinable, connection so perfectly synchronized that no outsider could ever hope to understand one as well as the other does. When Gladio’s strength fails him, Ignis is there with tactics tailored to cover him. When the Shield requires tending to after an ambush that’d nearly claimed him, Ignis is there administering first-aid in spite of his stubborn pride.

And when Ignis...Ignis had requested assistance for the first time, guilt and shame warring within his weary soul, Gladio had been there.

When all the fear, sorrow, anguish, pain -- everything the Advisor had kept tightly bottled inside -- had burst forth like a collapsed dam, like a catastrophic cataclysm demolishing all in its’ path, Gladio had been there. When Ignis’s composure, confidence, and conviction were all washed away by tears, the Shield hadn’t been swept away. Gladio had been there, safeguarding his friend’s shattered heart whilst the young man had held on for dear life like a shipwrecked sailor clutching driftwood. A grand pillar of strength and support, Gladio had been his lighthouse, providing sanctuary from the world that’d never allowed an ounce of vulnerability.

Gladio had been _there_.

He’d had every right to have told him so, telling his foolish self off for burning out as he’d warned, but he hadn’t. The gentle giant had been sensible, not at all harsh nor cruel as that outsider would presume just looking at the muscular, scarred behemoth.

Like Prompto believes.

It’s no fault of his own, the brunt of an enraged display terrifying in any child’s eyes. With how anxious to please the meek boy is, panicking and crying from so much as a chirping alarm, his fears are justified, evident by each scar. Prompto must have been screamed at that, beaten for what his abusers saw as disobedience or whenever they felt like it, conditioned like some laboratory experiment to retain preferred traits. Even branded as such, glistening green spying those wretched bars of black on pallid skin.

Prompto needs the big brother’s nurturing nature, but Gladio can’t be there.

Not yet, if ever.

“Oh, dear Prompto, there truly is so very much you don’t know.” Ignis laments to the silence, child in question rolling over at hearing his so-called caretaker and mumbling sleepy nonsense sounding vaguely of his name. His fingers quiver while reaching out, trembling slightly when landing on the disheveled nest of blond. Prompto doesn’t give notice, only sighing with that precious, barely-there smile at painless contact.

Savoring every bit of affection even in sleep.

Ignis procures pocketed glasses, setting them safely within reach by his phone. Prompto remains undisturbed as he shifts from sitting to lying down on his left, facing both of his charges. While changing position has proven ineffective to disperse the growing weight of his heavy heart, his body feels relatively at ease -- not enough to nap, of course, just that he’s quite comfortable given the circumstances. It simply isn’t possible for him to is all, not with his intellectual mind programmed to conduct calculations at all waking hours. His previous lifestyle of political meetings, advanced studies, and numerous duties had demanded a majority of his day and night that he couldn’t possibly have squeezed in a ‘nap’ even if he’d had the ever-elusive free-time. The Advisor’s sleeping schedule is strict, early to bed and early to rise to start each day anew with a strategy ripped apart by the unpredictable road -- such as their fruitless search for a Royal Arm resulting in a bout with a powerful time entity.

In short, Ignis Scientia is incapable of napping even when given the gracious opportunity to do so because he _can’t_. Instead, his resting strategy consists of staying still just so, waiting it out until both his aching head and heart recede to a manageable level. In the meantime, he’ll keep a watchful eye on Noct and Prompto, should they be in need of anything. Surely he can handle that while Gladio is preparing lunch. The fact that his eyes have slipped shut means nothing. He’s simply resting those as well, preserving what all energy he can while he can.

Ignis’s mind begins to wander aimlessly but insists he’s alert while tuning into the steady sounds of his companions sleeping. It’s a good idea he’s chosen to remain still since it would seem he’s incapable of moving, stomach nice and full from the late morning’s breakfast.

Perhaps.

_Perhaps._

He may actually...actually...

Wake up.

It’s peculiar that his eyelids are encrusted after being shut for a but brief period, or that he feels no immediate urge to open them. Consciousness laps lazily over him, flirting with his sluggish senses as though a wave’s foamy edge skimming over far sand. Being blind doesn’t particularly bother him, seemingly content to lay forever in the comfortable dark and just listen with what little sense he’s recovered. Painstakingly slowly does his typically active mind sort through the snoozing ambience to detect his Prince’s light snoring, not at all uncommon given his penchant for napping at all hours of the day. There’s a second he’s unfamiliar with, snug at his side with tiny breaths a wet heat against his torso. Brain power far too low to place the stranger, his subconscious deems it unimportant as his senses are diverted to a savory scent wafting into the darkness. It certainly hadn’t smelled this delectable minutes ago, hazily picking out the makings of a slow roast stew with mouth watering and stomach gurgling.

It _is_ rather peculiar, indeed. He’d only _just_ eaten.

Ignis blinks an eye open with a wince, temporarily impaired vision peering down at a small head of messy blond pressed up against him, a striking resemblance to -- ah, Prompto, yes, because that _is_ him. The Advisor must be worse than he thought to have forgotten their current predicament in a prolonged blink. Cautious of the napping child drooling into his shirt, he raises his right arm with poor coordination compared to his usual grace, roughly rubbing at sleep’s residue. The blind attempt to fetch his glasses goes smoother at least, blinking the last of crusty remnants away behind the lenses. The most challenging part of all is convincing himself to depart from the warm comfort, oddly stiff legs refusing to budge without stretching first. All in all, Ignis feels moderately okay for resting for only a brief spell, no need at all for ‘napping’.

Scooping up his phone, the device is deposited into his pocket before setting foot outside to timeless cloudy skies still mottled in grey. Gladio is just as he’d left him, this time checking in on the heavenly aroma coming from their stockpot.

“That smells delightful.” A rough voice sounding entirely unlike his own comes out of his mouth, causing the Shield to tense while whipping around with wooden spoon held out as though a blade. His battle stance is short-lived at the sight of ally approaching, frown transforming into a very amused smirk that Ignis can’t find reason to.

“You must’ve slept well, huh.” Gladio comments rather casually for the glint in his eyes, glimmering amber at his hairline as though entertained by an imaginary chickatrice on his head.

“I...I rested for only a moment, did I not?” Ignis questions aloud, clearly wrong by his guess as the chef then points upwards at his own wild mane.

“Tell that to your bedhead, Specs.”

‘Telling that to his bedhead’ requires him to withdraw his phone to view what it is he’s dealing with, lock screen displaying the incorrect time -- or rather, what is actually the _correct_ time, nearly two and a half hours off of his sure estimate.

“You were napping like a baby when I checked on you an hour ago, Iggy.” The Shield explains as seriously as he can for the mirth laced in his tone, coughing into a fist at the daggers glared his way. “That’s a _good_ thing, y’know. You needed it.”

“I assure you it was not my intention to.”

“But you _do_ feel better, right?”

Ignis doesn’t answer right away, smoothing a hand over the very definition of ‘bedhead’ that’s befallen his pristine hairstyle now a deflated, disheveled mess. If it is indeed the indicator of his surprise nap having been satisfactory then...well, Gladio’s wish has come true. He _does_ feel better compared to the Ignis of two and a half hours ago. His head no longer aches, his heart healed, and the stress he’d kept burdened upon his shoulders has been lifted.

“...yes, I do.” The admittance is a soft whisper despite dry lips, irritation melting into sincere gratitude. “Thank you, Gladio. I owe you a great deal.”

“Hey now, like I told ya earlier, it’s nothin’ at all.” The bashful behemoth insists from behind that same fist, stretching over to awkwardly scratch the back of his neck. “I was thinkin’ about waking you soon, anyway. This here is about done.”

“Ah yes, the gourmet lunch you’ve prepared for us.” Ignis smiles, drawn back into the kitchen by the alluring aroma as Gladio mumbles that he hadn’t told him that. For claiming to have little culinary expertise compared to the skillful Advisor, it’s apparent he’s cooked with the most important ingredient of all.

The love for his family and friends -- as well as a hearty helping of leiden peppers for their little fan of spice.

“Look, Iggy, I-”

“Gladio, this is-”

“Forget about it, you go on.”

“I spoke out of turn first, please do continue.”

The Shield’s eyes are remorseful, containing not so much a glimmer of the humor they’d had only minutes ago. Though he’d addressed Ignis, his gaze is resigned towards their tent.

Two and a half hours is a long time to think by one’s self.

“I, uh, hate to cook-and-run on ya like this, but I gotta go.” The excuse is poor as is his attempt to sidestep childhood friend while summoning trusty greatsword from the Armiger. Ignis’s hand rests lightly on his shoulder in passing and he freezes in his tracks.

“If you’d grant me my turn to speak?” Ignis quietly requests to the muscled giant that could effortlessly deny him in his need to flee, hunched muscles twitching beneath leather.

The Shield doesn’t answer, body language speaking for him by slowly turning around to face him with an audible swallow. It’s as though he’s been defeated before the battle’s even begun, strength shriveled like wilted petals with vision averted to where Ignis already knows.  

“You _are_ permitted to ‘drop the act around me’ as well, you know.” His childhood friend reminds him softly with a tender smile, an echo of the words used in positions reversed. Gently sliding his free hand over the swordsman’s too-tense grip on his blade, kind emerald patiently awaits the guilt-ridden amber slowly panning over. “I’m here for you, Gladio, as you were for me when I confided in you my fears and vulnerability. Will you allow me that same courtesy?”

Teal shards of light flicker about like stained glass, chiming in the scant breeze before leaving silence in their wake. The weapon is banished without so much a sliver of resistance, powerful warrior left with nothing to defend himself in a display of total submission.

“I already hurt Prompto once, Iggy. I _hurt_ him, and I’m fuckin’ scared I’ll do it again.” Gladio confesses despondently, free hand rising to squeeze Ignis’s upon his shoulder while the other trembles within his childhood friend’s hold. “I couldn’t...couldn’t even put the blanket back over him when I checked on you three--I’m _that_ scared. I don’t...I don’t want to-”

“ _Gladiolus._ ”

Fearful of having unintentionally hurting him after _just_ lamenting of doing the same towards their child-sized companion, Gladio backs off as though electrocuted. Before apologies can be formed on his lips, Ignis returns both palms atop his shoulders, prompting eye-contact with surefire determination.

“You will not hurt him, and would you care to know why?” The Advisor gives no time to answer the rhetorical question. “You are a kind, gentle soul that would never do anything to harm _any_ of us. You are fierce, true, but you use your strength to _protect_ us. To _Shield_ us. You are as much a big brother to us as you are to Iris, and we are beyond fortunate to have you at our side.”

“I still hurt him. _”_ Gladio counters weakly, appearing so small for a man so large.

“You _scared_ him,” Ignis firmly clarifies. “And Heavens knows you’ve done more than enough to repent. Your temper was at fault, as right as you were to be angry at...at what we all witnessed, and you’ve learned you _must_ keep it in check. You _do_ wish to care for young Prompto, do you not?”

“More than anything.” The Shield whispers, soft and sincere.

Ignis smiles fondly.

“Then you mustn’t keep blaming yourself. When the time comes where he needs you and no other, I’m confident that you’ll be everything he requires and more.” Arms returned to his sides, the Advisor pauses as his conviction then takes a lapse as the Shield rubs the back of his own head. “Ah, well, my turn lasted rather long, hm? I mustn't keep your Hunts waiting--oh, you’d best have some lunch before you set off. Will you eat here, or...?”

“The road. Don’t wanna risk being seen.” Gladio replies on autopilot, watching from eons away as Ignis hums thoughtfully in reply while searching for an appropriate container. Once found, it’s then filled to the brim with the hearty meal before safely secured in a bag. “I’ll be back by nightfall, but if you need me for anything, all you gotta do is text me and I’ll come running.”

“I know you will.” Ignis pushes his glasses up as the warrior then makes his way to the Haven’s edge. “Ah, Gladio?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for trusting me.”


	17. Picture Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Prompto has some yummy stew and learns about this thing called 'drawing'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter for the new year, and it's a bit of a long one! Hooray! Thank you all for your love and support as always, from this past year and into this one. It truly means so very much <3
> 
>  
> 
> And speaking of things that mean a lot *and* drawing, I had the opportunity a while back to commission the superbly talented Addie for a piece inspired by this fic that you can check out below (and be sure to send love) <3
> 
> https://spitfirerose.tumblr.com/post/181861636934/an-incredibly-beautiful-piece-that-i-commissioned
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

 

 

He’s gone and fallen asleep again. That must be what this is, once more finding himself at the campsite’s ledge that doesn’t hurt, nor the night air causing tiny bumps to rise across exposed skin -- everything nice and warm like when sitting at the fire. All there is is him and the big round light casting its’ soft, mesmerizing glow in the sky.

Oh, and the Lucian.

_Noct._

Rather than sitting on Ignis’s lap like before, he’s on Noct’s with the Lucian’s arms nice and comfortable around him while his own are preoccupied by Leo. Prompto’s unable to recollect just how long they’ve been entranced by the pale emission banishing the dark, yet finds he doesn’t mind when in their company. Although the light doesn’t emit warmth like a fire’s flames, it does bestow a greater sense of safety than the times he’d spent recharging in his storage pod, sealed safely away in suffocating shadows. The child doesn’t know what to call this particular round light -- if it even has a name --, but it’s nice to look at and so he wonders if the silent Leo likes it as well with soft blue fixated at the lit night sky. If Noct does, he makes no mention of it, instead murmuring gentle reminders that he’s important, has worth, and is...is that word.

_Loved_.

It’s still undefined in his vocabulary, but it makes his heart feel all funny like when Ignis and Noct hold and praise him, and so he doesn’t worry too much about what it could actually mean.

Everything is soft, warm, safe.

Prompto’s little button nose twitches as a strange, savory scent floats in from where, he doesn’t know, only that he begins to drool in anticipation from a far-off memory of Ignis mentioning something delicious. Delicious and _spicy_. Tilting his chin up, he shyly peers at Noct who smiles down at him in return, lightly ruffling disheveled blond. The Lucian hums his approval, permitting the famished boy’s mute request to follow his nose.

Light fades to darkness, then to a fabric wall of the oddly-shaped room when violet flutters open in a daze. Everything is still soft, warm, safe that for a long, peaceful moment the small soldier just lies there in near-overwhelming relief that it _is_ before his gluttonous stomach reminds him of its hunger. Nostrils flaring at rediscovery of the alluring aroma, his feeble frame is easily convinced into sitting up after detangling from twisted blankets. The seemingly unstoppable quest for human food is derailed at sight of the sleeping Lucian, the dark-haired boy worse off than when Prompto had last seen him. Noct is sweating profusely like when he’d been ordered to continuously run one obstacle course after another after failing any improvement despite corrections. After enduring further corrections, he then would be sent to the sanitation chamber, stripped of his uniform’s bloodied rags like the ailing Lucian had been with his shirt.

The daemon’s scar is still there.

While the Scientist had informed him it wasn’t his doing, the young trooper’s breath catches in his throat with a constricted gulp.

He still _hurt_ Noct.

“ _I’m sorry.”_ Prompto apologizes quietly despite earlier insistence that he’s not at fault, remorse weighing heavily on his weak heart crushed beneath it. Noct had determined him to be worth debilitating pain in order secure his safety and therefore his unheard apology is pointless just like always. Even so, the guilt-ridden child knows what it’s like to hurt, knows pain that’s as familiar as the dozens of scars matching the one upon the Lucian’s back by the monsters he’s meant to be.

He’s _hurt_ Noct, and the very real possibility of repeating the error is terrifying.

He...He _can’t_.

Hurriedly searching for the gifted stuffed animal lost within the sheets, Prompto successfully recovers Leo with a reassuring squeeze to his chest before kneeling next to the dark-haired boy. Biting his lip at the pinched expression upon pallid face, Noct mumbles something too low to make out. Holding Leo out before him, the child’s violet orbs stare into soft pale blue with little nose touching the pointy point on faded yellow.

“ _W_ _ill you be good to Noct, Leo?”_ The inanimate object doesn’t say anything in return -- a trait the timid child appreciates with how difficult it is to find right answers in speech --, but nods faithfully by aid of small, careful hands. That warm feeling returns to his chest just a bit, lips curving upwards ever so slightly. _“You’re best Leo, Leo.”_

The little trooper ponders if praise makes it feel as good as he does when received from Ignis and Noct, the comforting possession far more deserving of commendation than he is. With the utmost care, the boy lifts the Lucian’s elbow just enough to slip the stuffed animal underneath, trusting the Leo to do as it does best in providing soft, silent support. Prompto hopes Leo makes Noct feel as good as he does when soothed by its’ presence, too, little fingers wrapping around a plush appendage for encouragement. He hopes the spicy human food will make him feel better as well, rising to sock-covered feet before balancing atop the tips of tiny toes as not to disturb much-needed rest.

Cautiously crossing over to the canvas room’s sole entrance and exit, the child perilously peers at the vast outside world he’s only viewed but a glimpse of. Once again does curious violet spy not one impenetrable barrier topped with barbed wire, nor a grand tower manned by a Guard armed with blinding searchlights and piercing bullets -- no Guards at all, much to the exhale of bated breath and blessing to Shiva. There’s just the odd stones that glow underfoot with the campfire at center, cornered by four chairs facing the foreign terrain of countless towering trees not weighed down by dense snow. They reach so very high that the boy considers if they could reach the thick, cloudy gray sky that’s the only familiarity he knows. In spite of that, this colorful outside isn’t bitterly cold to his exposed skin -- not as though he didn’t freeze when in his black bodysuit. Prompto wonders, wonders if those clouds are as soft as they appear, the question burning on his tongue like the spicy taste does as the scent infiltrates his curiosity once more towards the source.

Right where _Ignis_ is, just as promised, chest blossoming with warmth all the way to his toes that begin to move of their own accord, soon breaking into a run as though his life depends on it. He scurries forth as quickly as those little feet can take him, not so much as pausing before barreling into the Scientist’s leg and wrapping scrawny arms around the stiffened limb.

Ignis is here, _Ignis is here,_ **_Ignis is here._ **

The overwhelming relief of it all has his eyes sting, immediately shaking his head when that soft, warm, safe accented voice questions if anything is the matter. _Nothing’s_ the matter except the inexplicable, staggering relief that’s brought him to tears. The glasses-wearing man crouches down and Prompto knows he’ll be wanting a verbal explanation as he hadn’t answered the order, but then careful fingers are threading in his hair and it’s just so _nice._ Seeking more and driven by the urge in his aching heart, the small child releases the leg in favor of diving into the Scientist’s torso, latching on with little fists full of the spotted print and pressing himself as close as possible, as though Ignis could disappear at any moment. He doesn’t think humans are capable of that, but his heart fears it possible and therefore he’s unwilling to risk it.

Maybe Ignis is fearful of the same occurring as next he knows he’s being scooped up into the man’s arms and held tenderly against his chest. He’s so soft, so warm, so safe that Prompto can’t help but pathetically sniffle into the wet fabric, trembling even as a gentle palm circles his back.

“I’ve got you, it’s alright. You’re safe here in my arms, little one. Whatever the matter is, we’ll see to it.”

Prompto shakes his head again as _nothing_ is the matter, he’s just...just... Ignis is...Ignis is...

“ _You’re here.”_ The obvious observation is confessed with a hushed whisper, the boy biting his lip at the rebellious utterance that would’ve had him corrected at once. The small soldier doesn’t know what to expect from the Scientist unlike any other, chancing a tearful peek away from his chest to find the kindest of smiles.

“I am,” Ignis replies in a tone far softer than the child’s ever heard, carding his hair far gentler than he’s ever felt. “As am I also relieved to see you here as well, little one.”

Prompto is _‘here_ ’.

‘ _He_ _re_ ’ where everything is entirely unlike the tightly enclosed facility he’s only ever known, raised within cold concrete walls and metal bars while trained under the Empire’s unforgiving regime alongside hundreds of thousands of superior clones. ‘ _Here’_ where it hasn’t once been drilled into him that he’s worthless, insignificant, and undeserving of vital resources. _‘Here’_ where his ceaseless malfunctions haven’t been cruelly corrected for the umpteenth time by Scientists, Guards, and clones alike. ‘ _Here’,_ where everything Prompto’s ever known no longer applies in this overwhelming new world that’s not only incredibly intimidating to the small child, but also...also... _exhilarating._ ‘ _Here’_ where he’s experienced all he never has before, like tender actions from not just one caring individual, but _two_ that’ve earned his complete trust. ‘ _Here’_ where with Ignis and Noct, he has worth, importance, and is deserving of all he’d never thought possible and still can’t comprehend.

Prompto is ‘ _here’_ and he doesn’t know _why._ He _doesn’t know_ what the purpose of this all is, _doesn’t know_ what their intentions are, and _doesn’t know_ what he’s meant to do. All he does know is the painful ache in his yearning heart to be _useful_ , to do whatever it takes to stay in their good graces and remain _‘here’_ for as long as he’s able before inevitably malfunctioning into disrepair. Once that happens -- and it will -- he’ll be sent to decommissioning like all the rest before him, the world having no place for a useless failure of a magitek trooper.

Yet even at the resolve to be of use, all Prompto seems capable of at the moment is uselessly crying over the selfish desire to _stay_ that’ll never be permitted while simultaneously overwhelmed with relief at Ignis’s presence. The glasses-wearing man gently rocks him back and forth as he sobs into his shoulder, humming in his ear with that grounding accent tethering him from malfunctioning completely.

“It must be an awful lot to process with everything so drastically different, I know.” Of course the Scientist is aware of his internal conflict due to his superior intelligence, shushing him softly instead of berating his inability to adapt. “I know, little one, I know. It musn’t be easy at all and yet you continuously put your best efforts forth. You’ve accomplished so much, Prompto, and I’m so very proud of you.”

_But I haven’t_. Prompto bites his lip before his traitorous mouth can retaliate, mind short-circuiting at the gratuitous praise he’s done absolutely nothing to earn. It’s true that he _does_ try hard all the time, he really, earnestly does, but his accomplishments are very few and very far between -- and nothing, _nothing_ that would warrant all the praise he’s received. He’s failed more orders than he can count, malfunctioned more than that, and has been corrected the most -- yet when he fails ‘ _here_ ’, Ignis and Noct appreciate that he even _tried_ , correcting him kindly so that he understands.

But he _doesn’t._

Prompto doesn’t _understand._

His head pounds like when he’d first been shoved into his storage pod for a week, beating against hollow walls that never once yielded. His stomach churns as well, reminded of the spicy scent so nauseatingly close that it makes him equally dizzy from hunger. He has to be. Has to be useful. Bringing Noct the human food is a good start, breaking away from the Scientist’s collarbone to inspect the source covered with a lid.

“Would I be correct to presume this delectable scent played a role in luring you here?” Ignis inquires, voice light and warm like when he’d first had a spicy. He’s correct and Prompto nods, watching with great interest as he uses his free arm to set two bowls atop a tray. “I find that a homemade meal does wonders in making one feel better, especially when shared with pleasant company.”

It’s reassuring to know that Noct will indeed feel better after eating this particular meal. He’s mesmerized right away at each ladleful of various shapes and colors of food pieces he’s never seen before, observing as they’re scooped up and deposited into a bowl. There’s still plenty left large pot to his relief, hoping to Shiva that maybe, maybe they’ll allow him a taste once they’re finished. It’s okay there isn’t delegated for him. Both Ignis and Noct need to eat way more than he does. He’s...He’s used to it, even though his stomach rumbles very loudly.

Ignis places a carton of ‘milk’ and a can of something on the tray before lowering Prompto back onto the ground.

“Might you select a place to sit?”

It’s an easy drill. By being compliant, maybe he’ll be granted a bite.

The soldier marches past the chairs at the fire, quieting his steps when entering the oddly-shaped room where the sweating Lucian still sleeps with Leo beneath his arm. Prompto hopes he’ll wake up soon so he can eat and feel better, obediently taking his seat in the furthest corner as ordered. To his surprise Ignis has followed him, commenting idly that he’s chosen a comfortable place to eat while sitting down beside him.

“Let us have lunch, then.”

The child bites his lip, tries to ignore how his stomach gurgles over the human meal that isn’t meant for him. Ignis is waiting. Waiting for him to do something, but Prompto doesn’t know what. He did as was ordered, but there must be more.

_Stupid_. He chastises himself, worrying his bottom lip away while trying to recollect what he’s meant to do now. _Idiot. Noct can’t eat if the bowl’s over here._

Wordlessly, the child cups his hands around the warm bowl, lifts it carefully while rising to his feet. Each step he takes is slow and precise through the entanglement of cloths, gaze shifting from the floor, the bowl’s contents, and the Lucian. He makes it by Shiva’s blessing, cautiously lowering himself to his knees before Noct, offering the human food in front of his twitching face. The dark-haired boy doesn’t wake up, but that’s okay. The food will still be there when he does. Order hopefully completed fully, Prompto stands back up and turns around, expecting the Scientist to finally praise him with what he’s rightfully earned.

Ignis isn’t happy.

He isn’t...isn’t happy _at all_.

The boy bites his lip, fidgets with the bottom of the oversized shirt that isn’t his. Ignis just stares at him like when a Scientist examines his performances, trying to bring sense to his senseless malfunctions, except his green eyes are glistening. He’s done something wrong. Very wrong. He just thought...thought...Ignis had _said_...

“ _It’s...It’ll...”_ Prompto averts his gaze to the floor, unable to meet him in the eye for something as simple as repeating what he’d been told, torn between the urge to blurt it out and keep quiet. “ _B-Better. Ma-Make Noct...be-better...”_

The Scientist pushes his glasses so far up his nose that it must hurt, expression too masked to tell if it did.

“ _Y-You’re correct, I did say that._ ” Ignis says in a voice that sounds small for a grown-up, the hand from his eyeglasses moving down to cover his mouth with a shaky exhale. For being right, it doesn’t make Prompto feel very good even as the man takes a deep breath before speaking. “That is quite thoughtful of you and while I’m certain Noct would appreciate your generosity, I- _he_ would feel far better if you ate in his stead.”

“ _B-But-”_

“You-ah, _Noct_ won’t go hungry if we both eat. I promise I won’t allow _anyone_ to go without a meal. There’s more than enough for all of us, so please, please don’t...” The glasses-wearing man trails off with order incomplete, shaking his own head before a strained smile forces its way on shaky lips. “When Noct wakes up, you can assist me with bringing him his own lunch. How does that sound?”

It sounds good. The Lucian will feel better once he’s awake and has the human food which means...means he’s permitted to _eat_ this, right? Ignis doesn’t say anything when he turns around to pick the bowl back up, violet lingering on Noct for a moment longer before making the short, careful trek to the farthest corner with the Scientist. Returning the bowl back to the tray, Prompto sits snug against Ignis’s side, tentatively reaching out for the spoon.

He hesitantly glances up at the glasses-wearing man, question clear in his eyes as the adult nods as though defeated.

“Please eat.”

_“What’s...um...”_ The curious yet clueless trooper isn’t exactly sure where to start, the bowl filled with contents unfamiliar, the kinda-soupy substance unlike what he’d first scarfed down. That had been yellow-y, but this is darker and has more color in it.

“It’s called a ‘stew’, a meal made up of cooked vegetables and a roast that are, well, _stewed_ together for a few hours.” Ignis supplies, expression soft and genuine unlike the weary smile before. He picks up his own spoon, skimming the surface for a sliced red stick that limply hangs over the scoop. “This is a Leiden pepper. They come in a variety of colors and are known for their mild spicy flavor. A certain Shield thinks you’ll take a liking to them.”

Prompto doesn’t know what Ignis means by any of that, but the mention of spicy is all it takes for his eyes to shine, quickly stirring through the dark liquid in search for the...the whatever he said. The limp, spicy red stick. There’s squishy red blobs, translucent striped pieces, orange slices, white blocks, a shredded brown thing, and...and...

_Ah!_

The spicy quickly finds its way into his mouth, sending his novice tastebuds abuzz with not only the ‘mild’ burn, but _more_ than that. The dark liquid is...is...Prompto doesn’t know how else to describe it, only that it’s _good. Really_ good. The orange slices are _good_ , the white blocks are _good,_ and the shredded brown thing is _good_. The squishy red blob is gross, though, and he doesn’t particularly like the translucent striped pieces.

But everything else is still very, very, very good.

_‘Stew’_ is very, very, very good.

It’s so spicy and good that it makes his tummy feel warm and good, scraping at the bottom of the bowl before he knows it. Wondering if maybe, maybe Ignis will share his human food like Noct had, his thoughts are soon interrupted by the Scientist placing his untouched bowl over his mostly-emptied one. The order is gently given to have his fill and so he does, sorting through the dark liquid to pick out favored contents. He still flinches when Ignis reaches to grab the can off the tray, pulling the metal tab backwards in order to take a drink. The glasses-wearing man hasn’t changed his mind. It’s okay to eat his food and so he does, just a little bit, stomach fit to burst if he dares try another bite. Prompto doesn’t finish all of it, means to offer the rest to Ignis so that he can eat it when half-lidded violet grows wide at the items in his hand.

It isn’t a clipboard, but it’s just as _bad_.

The Scientist is _writing_ on the notebook of paper, and that’s _bad._

He’s at least halfway through the pages, and that’s _bad._

That’s bad, _that’s bad,_ **_that’s bad._ **

He thinks Ignis says his name, but he doesn’t hear it. He _should_ hear it, hear whatever it is he’s saying as his breaths hitch all funny in his chest. The sated sensation in his stomach is gone, warmth turned to chilling dread that makes him want to throw up.

Prompto doesn’t _want_ to throw up.

He doesn’t _want_ to malfunction.

He doesn’t _want_ Ignis to...to...

He just wants to...wants to...

“Breathe, Prompto.” He doesn’t know when Ignis had pulled him onto his lap, doesn’t know when his little palm had been pressed flat against a ribcage that steadily rises and falls. “Follow my breathing, yes, that’s it. It’s all gone, you’re safe. Just follow me.”

Prompto puts his best effort forth into following, trying with all he has to slow his shallow, rapid breaths into matching the deeper, steadier ones. He follows the Scientist’s count to the best of hindered ability, finds it easier to keep pace with continuous praise for his herculean attempts.

Ignis is proud of his accomplishment when the malfunction fades away, leaving him as limp in the glasses-wearing man’s arms as the spicy red stick.

“Was it the notebook that upset you so?” He asks after a moment, carding his hand through his hair that feels very nice as he weakly nods against his chest. “Can you tell me what it was about the notebook?”

It takes too much energy to open his mouth, to come up with the words to say even if he could speak.

“You saw me writing in the notebook. Was that it?”

Prompto doesn’t know how the Scientist knows. He’s way too smart for his stupid self to even comprehend, pathetically nodding again.

“Did you think I was writing something that would upset you?”

Prompto bites his lip with a sniffle, turning his head to hide his face into the dark, warm safety of Ignis’s torso. Arms envelop him, cradle him better. Ignis holds him for a very long time like that. It’s nice. He doesn’t think Ignis would be reporting all the bad things the child does since he’s being nice.

Ignis is always just...just so nice.

“You liked the stew, didn’t you?” The question is hummed by his ear and he nods. It’s a nice, easy question. “Each meal I make has a recipe that must be followed, like a set of instructions. I keep them all in that notebook so I can make them again. The stew you had was one of them, though a little different, and so I looked in the notebook to read what was changed. The Leiden peppers were written in and I wrote that you liked them, but didn’t like the Lucian tomatoes, nor the wild onions. Does that upset you?”

Prompto shakes his head. That isn’t...isn’t bad at all.

“Would you like to see the notebook?” The boy peeks his head out from his hiding place, slowly nodding as Ignis withdraws the little black book, paging to what he presumes is the stew section. There’s two types of lines taking up the page,filled with all sorts of shapes and curves, one neater while the other is messy. It’s just like how the Scientists wrote down on their clipboards and just like that, he also can’t read it.

But Prompto doesn’t ask what all the swoops and loops mean, instead ‘see’s it as Ignis had permitted. It ‘see’s good, trusting his word that it is as good as it looks.

“Say, Prompto?”

“ _P-Prompto.”_

“Ah, yes, that is you.” Ignis confirms with a tender hand to his hair, using the other to pull out the pen from his pocket before flipping to a blank page. “Would you perhaps like to draw?”

_“Dr-Draw?”_ The child tilts his head in question, the word new on his tongue. The Scientist understands as he always does, first pushing up his glasses before providing an explanation to the foreign term.

“To ‘ _draw’_ means create ‘ _pictures_ ’ of what the artist sees, or by using their _‘imagination’_.” Prompto blinks, certain he’s heard that last word used in a negative tone. It’s clear he’s clueless when peering up at Ignis at a loss. “I’m..er, afraid I’m not the creative type in that regard unlike you-ah, why not try drawing Leo, hm? Or what you’ve had to eat?”

Prompto just stares, expression as empty as the paper. He can’t ‘draw’ all of Leo since the stuffed animal is under Noct, being a good Leo at making him feel safe in sleep.

He doesn’t wanna throw up the food he just ate to ‘draw’ it, either.

“Perhaps...Perhaps your parents?” The Scientist suggests quietly, seriously. “The two that look after and care for you.”

Oh, that’s easy. Prompto can ‘draw’ them.

Ignis leaves him be to complete the order, rising to take care of their dishes with a reminder that he’s right outside the fabric room if the trooper needs him.

Prompto draws, takes great care in making sure he has each and every recognizable detail scribbled down.

Then he goes to show Ignis.


	18. Discrepancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something doesn't add up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter and another milestone of 15k (almost 16!) hits!
> 
> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA that'ssomany
> 
> Thank you all so very, very much for reading and commenting on this fic as things finally pick up. It means a ton and definitely gives a boost when writing the next chapter <3
> 
> Thank you all again and I hope you enjoy!

 

 

 

When Ignis had first heard the pattering of little feet from the tent, he’d thought it just the small child desiring to greet him after awakening. However no words had been spoken as he’d gripped his leg as tight as an iron, evident something was the matter by Prompto’s immediate denial that _nothing_ was. His worry had grown hundredfold at the boy then burrowing into his torso, latched on as though the Advisor could vanish. Fearing he’d had a nightmare -- a sound theory from the hell he’d been heinously abused and neglected in --, Ignis had then picked him up like Regis would do for a distraught Noctis at this age, internally scolding himself that he should’ve checked on him to safeguard from reliving such terrors. Except, presumably, that hadn’t been the case at all as his tears weren’t out of distress, but _relief_ at his presence. It was then Prompto had truly begun to cry at simple acknowledgement spoken in a tone filled with immense tenderness he again hadn’t known himself capable of, actions just as gentle while lightly rocking the sobbing child to and fro.

While they were each facing fallout of their treasured ally’s tragic past, it hadn’t necessarily occurred to him that young Prompto was experiencing the same in a way. How jarring that must be and especially from a child’s perspective, one moment trapped in a living hell to finding one’s self in what may as well be heaven. There’s no doubt that his physical, mental, and emotional states resulted in his timid, anxious-to-please nature, but being surrounded with strangers in a different time and place must have an additional impact on current behavior. Ignis cannot even begin to fathom how overwhelming that must be going from one extreme to the other, cannot even begin to imagine just how he’d adapted into present day -- except he truly hadn’t.

Not unscathed.

While lacking confidence and self-worth, as well as anxiety and claustrophobia -- to name a few perceived insecurities -- Prompto Argentum had still endured, miraculously growing into a selfless, jovial young man in spite of all that tried to extinguish his brilliant light. His adoptive guardians had neglected to provide any shred of humanity, robbing his whole existence of shelter, sustenance, and unconditional love, yet Prompto had still thrived with nothing but a chocobo plush and a spirit that would not be broken. There’s no beginning to describe the near-overwhelming sense of awe-inspiring pride that courses through Ignis at that, soothingly murmuring as such into the sniffling boy’s ear who won’t understand why the Advisor is proud of all of his currently nonexistent accomplishments. He suspects Prompto won’t believe him when he’s grown, either, unaware of just how truly incredible he is.

And, by the rumbling of tiny tummy, truly hungry as well, heart warming with fondness that it hadn’t _just_ been his presence which had lured the famished boy here in hopes of having something to eat. His willingness to partake in a meal is far more reassuring to Ignis than the child will ever know, quickly yet carefully preparing two bowls full along with appropriate beverages. Setting the boy down in order to carry the weighted tray, the Advisor offers the freedom to sit where he chooses.

But Prompto doesn’t select a seat by the fire.

Alternatively he marches right past the four chairs and an intrigued Ignis follows.

Inside the tent, Noct thankfully sleeps undisturbed save for Leo that’s been tucked underneath his arm doubtlessly by the considerate child’s doing. Prompto halts in furthest corner where he’d fearfully flung himself but a late yesterday afternoon ago, taking a seat as though he will be out of sight and therefore out of mind -- if such a demeaning saying holds any weight from his neglectful upbringing. Ignis determines to leave it be just this once, making note to be more clear with requests in the future and to make certain Prompto understands that he’s allowed to utilize furniture. At the very least he’s chosen a comfortable place to eat, if that counts for anything, praising his selection regardless while taking a seat beside him. Deeming it time to have lunch, the Advisor observes without making the first move, expecting the boy to pick up his spoon and begin eating.

Instead he just sits there, biting his lower lip as his stomach grumbles aloud, hunger obvious. His eyebrows furrow as little hands curl around the steaming bowl -- briefly envisioning a repeat of green soup curry -- but then shift to puzzlement as the child rises to his feet. Sage green watches every meticulous step Prompto takes towards the Prince, resisting the urge to blink back the moisture that collects as he places the bowl down right before Noct’s sleeping face, turning back around only to freeze at what must be a worrisome expression.

There’s a million questions daring to be asked at the boy frantically chewing his lip as though he’s done something terribly wrong and there’s a heartbreaking conclusion that can be surmised for every one. Fidgeting with the hem of the oversized top, Prompto directs nervous violet to the floor, appearing all the more anxious the longer his stunned silence lasts.

 _“It’s...It’ll..._ ” That little voice wavers with all the uncertainty in the world, taking every last ounce of courage for speaking even but a few words. “ _B-Better. Ma-Make Noct...be-better...”_

 _Selfless_.

Prompto is so gods-be-damned _selfless._

Sharp pain jabs beneath his eyes, unaware he’d even been pushing his glasses up his nose under the imagination he’d been embedding his daggers into the skulls of monstrous beings that’ve molded Prompto this way. Rendered him to be Six-be-damned _relieved_ when Ignis weakly whispers that he’s correct, he did say that. Hand lowering to cover the quivering mouth fit to release a cry, he manages to transform it into a shaky exhale followed by a deep breath, taking the brief moment to compose spiraling thoughts.

How does one even begin to tell an abused child that being denied food is unacceptable? That starving is one of many, many things he should never have experienced? That he’s _allowed_ something to eat when he’s hungry, that he doesn’t have to...doesn’t have to selflessly give up his meal so that another may eat?

Ignis tries, stumbling over word choice in prayer to the same damned Astrals for Prompto to understand. It’s difficult when all he wants to do is clutch the child close and feed him himself, resisting that caretaking urge as powerful as it is. In the end, all he can suggest is a compromise that Prompto can help him bring Noct his lunch when he wakes. It’s despicable, the near-nauseating relief that washes over him when the child pivots back around to retrieve the bowl before carefully making his way back over. It’s as though everything is magically alright again by the way the boy sits snugly at his side at the reassurance that Noct will be tended to, as though he hadn’t once again intended on offering his meal in favor of filling another’s empty stomach. Prompto tentatively reaches for his spoon like it’s the weight crushing Ignis’s heart, and it’s all he can do but nod with request to eat as those hopeful eyes hesitantly peer up at him.

“ _What’s...um...”_

The effect the small child has on once stoic heartstrings is extraordinary, able to effortlessly whiplash them into shattering in sorrow one moment to brim with bittersweet adoration in the next. Mere minutes ago his bleeding heart had wept with melancholy at the boy’s boundless selflessness, now whiplashed to a profound tenderness at something so innocent as a child’s curiosity. A sweet, pure innocence that despite traumatic corruption has been retained. When Ignis explains ‘stew’ and beloved spice in the form of a Leiden pepper, Prompto’s little face lights up with literal childlike wonder when discovering one for himself. Sheer delight follows shortly after once the spice hits his tongue, digging in to the stew’s contents for more. It’s as precious as it is bittersweet, the child trying various vegetables with likes and dislikes evident from expression shifting in further delight to downright disgusted. At least his palate approves of far more than the picky Prince’s -- clearly not a fan of Lucian tomatoes and wild onions--, but he eats everything else and it’s all Ignis could ever ask for, placing his bowl atop Prompto’s before the boy can shyly ask.

“Go on, little one. Eat your fill.” The Advisor prompts gently and so the child does, flinching when he reaches over to retrieve his Ebony but thankfully resumes sorting through the broth to find more favored peppers.

Gladio will be glad to hear how well-received his meal has been and while he hasn’t tried it for himself yet, holds no doubt that the Shield would make for an excellent chef if the smell, presentation, and Prompto’s ravenous consumption have anything to go by. Perhaps if the swordsman is willing, he certainly wouldn’t object to having an extra hand or two assist him in the kitchen in the future. Cracking the can open, Ignis entertains the idea with a thoughtful sip before procuring recipe book from pocket. He’s made plenty of stews before, of course, on miserably rainy days and as something to look forward to after a harrowing Hunt, but none have been quite like this.

Paging through the collection, his eyes catch on a distinct scrawl that isn’t his own. It would appear as though the Shield has come up with a new recipe of his own, a revised rendition of ‘ _Dry-Aged Tender Roast Stew’_ by way of scribbled notes of improved preparation and additional ingredients. Truly Gladio had given it all to ensure that Prompto would enjoy every bite, a touching realization that warms Ignis’s heart at his determination to make amends.

He hopes Prompto will give him a chance when he’s ready, certain that both traumatized child and big brother would benefit from healthy, wholesome interactions.

Withdrawing pen, the Advisor makes note of his observations based on Prompto’s preferences. The peppers, a hit as predicted. Tomatoes and onions, not so much.

All in all, a major success.

Turning his attention back to the boy, the satisfaction in his soul seizes up at how unnaturally pale he’s become, frozen still as if touched by Shiva. Wide violet are transfixed on the notebook and pen in his hands, fixated as if trapped in a horrific memory. Calling out his name and setting the items aside does nothing to break his trance, breaths hitching all the harder in the alarming signs of a panic attack.

Ignis gently positions him onto his lap just like before, pressing his little palm against his ribcage while murmuring comforting instruction and praise into his ear to follow his breathing. He’s not certain how long it takes before Prompto accomplishes matching his steady rate, panic finally dissolving into pure exhaustion that renders him completely boneless in his arms.

It was the _notebook_.

 _Writing_ in the _notebook_.

The panic attack was because he’d been _writing_ in a _notebook._

Whoever has left these scars will find Ignis Scientia’s wrath upon them, still amongst the living or no. A way _will_ be found once this is all over, storing unadulterated anger away in favor of soothing the child that’s hidden tearful face into his torso. Cradling him against his heart, Ignis holds onto him for a very long time, not wanting the magic to yield yet also not wishing to wait a moment longer to unmask those that have hurt their Prompto by way of writing in a notebook. He doesn’t dare want to imagine how one could terrorize a child enough to warrant a panic attack, but Ignis will be damned to give the boy reason to believe that the devoted caregiver would do the very same.

The Advisor does as he does best, explaining in a way for him to understand with beloved stew as an example, offering the option to see the notebook for himself. Whatever upsetting material he’d been expecting to see plainly wasn’t there, wet violet skimming over promised recipes bringing him no harm. Nothing but pen and paper, which sparks recollection of short-lived research in regards to traumatized children given such to draw their experiences as a better way to express themselves, or to simply draw as children normally tend to do.

Or...perhaps not at all in Prompto’s case, apparent he’s never heard the term nor participated in the activity before. He’d likely never even had _vegetables_ before, never even _drawn_ before -- Gods above, he’s never even been a _child_ before, having not a clue about ‘creativity’ or ‘imagination’. It’s difficult to envision this boy as _their_ Prompto, the very same with limitless artistic creativity and unrivaled photographic skills. The Advisor holds his tongue from spilling future secrets, lest they accidentally rupture the space-time continuum or at the very least implode the young child’s already overwhelmed mind trapped in the past.

Yes, the past.

With his so-called _parents_.

Interest held with a morbid curiosity, Ignis finds himself suggesting the very two subjects for Prompto to draw.

The prompt is accepted with a nod and so he grants him privacy to bring his tormentors to life by the pen, reminding the boy that he’ll be right outside the tent if he needs him.

 

* * *

 

Ignis waits.

There isn’t all that much to as Gladio had not only cooked lunch, but had busied himself with other tasks in the meantime whilst the Advisor had napped. Their breakfast dishes and those used in meal preparation are already washed and stacked in their proper places, stovetop and counter wiped spotless, and remaining provisions tallied with a note from the Shield stating to be foraging for more while on his Hunts. It’s remarkably reassuring to see how above and beyond Gladio has gone to prevent him from burning out again, as much as it vexes him to have nothing productive to do until either Prompto finishes drawing or Noct awakens.

The reveal of the blond’s parents for the monsters they truly were, or the hopeful improvement of his Prince’s condition and helping of lunch.

A suspenseful cliffhanger, if there ever was one.

One that in either case shouldn’t be stomached on, well, an empty stomach.

Casting a glance towards the tent without detecting any sounds of distress, Ignis refills his partially-emptied bowl to the brim. The stew smells utterly delightful, garula sirloin flawlessly departing from bone, vegetables cooked to perfection -- why there’s not a wonder in the world at how it played a role in luring --

“ _I completed your order_.” Prompto’s voice whispers directly behind him, giving the Advisor a heart attack while thankfully dropping the ladle he’d been holding instead of the bowl.

“P-Pardon?” Ignis stutters, certain he hadn’t heard him approach at all. Obviously the boy doesn’t know how close he’d come to sending him to an early grave, reciting the phrase again like a little drone that sounds nothing at all like childspeak. “I...ordered you?”

Prompto obediently nods and he raises an eyebrow.

“I requested you to draw, yes, but certainly not ‘ordered.’” The correction has him look uneasy, as if he’s explaining in an entirely different language. Ignoring his rapidly beating heart still threatening to keel over, Ignis crouches down to his level and places a hand upon tiny shoulder. “I assure you that you will not be ‘ordered’ around like a sort of servant. If you are ever asked to do something you are uncomfortable with or feel unsafe about, it is more than acceptable to say ‘no’. No one here will ‘order’ you otherwise unless your safety is truly at stake.”

The boy pales, anxiously biting away at his lip while averting his eyes to the notebook in hand, fingers fidgeting and twisting at the sides. It’s clearly too much once again, small world torn asunder at being treated with basic human decency. Whomever has been ‘ordering’ this child around will have more to fear than Ignis’s wrath, infuriated Advisor keeping himself in check with a deep breath and redirect of focus.

“Might I see what you’ve drawn? I’m sure it’s lovely.”

Prompto pushes the notebook forward out of clear anxious energy, as if Ignis is a art critic about to judge his young life’s work. He can’t help but feel so, nerves running amuck at parental exposure he’s anticipated the very moment someone had been _starving_ Prompto.

_Scarred Prompto._

Flipping to the end with previously blank pages, Ignis finds what he’s been looking for.

A tall figure with spiked hair and glasses.

A shorter one with very wild strokes filled in for dark hair.

“You’ve...You’ve drawn Noct and I as your parents.” The words escape his lips before he’s aware of it, unable to even describe the turmoil of emotion that anchors his heart to the ocean’s darkest depths.

“ _Is-Is that wrong?”_ He doesn’t think Prompto could sound any more anxious if he tried, near on the verge of tears as it is.

“No,” Ignis sets the notebook aside as though on auto-pilot, gathering the precious soul into his arms without thinking twice. “Not at all, darling sweet little one. We do look after and care for you more than words can say. You’re so very right.”

The child exhales with a small noise against his heart, tense frame melting at ample reassurance and praise as little fists grasp his shirt. Ignis holds him for a very long time, conveying just how much he earnestly cares for treasured companion that regards them both as caregiving individuals. Prompto makes not even a peep as he lifts him up, padding softly towards the tent. Kneeling carefully with the boy in his arms, the Advisor peruses through magic’d ally’s travel bag for the device left previously in discarded pants.

The lock screen lights up at the press of a button, revealing a smiling middle-aged couple in business attire waving at the photographer.

“Prompto, dove, might I make another request? This time it’s alright if you can’t.” The child stirs in his hold, little face quizzically peeking up at him while nodding. “You’re aware you are safe here in my arms, yes? And that nothing shall harm you while with me?”

The boy nods, more sure of himself with violet so very trusting.

“I just wish to know if you perchance recognize the man and woman in this picture. Remember, you’re safe and that they shan’t harm you.”

Truth be told, he doesn’t know what quite to expect. A visceral reaction, certainly, of child-sized companion either breaking free to get away or hiding against his chest at facing his abusers. Prompto stares at the screen long enough for it to time out, fading to black and leaving the boy’s blank reflection of biting his lip. Tilting his chin up, he looks at Ignis without any fear, panic, or dread. Not the way any severely neglected individual would react, not even clamming up and shutting down.

 _“N-N-N-”_ He seems incapable of speaking his denial, shaking his head with a worried nibble. “ _Is-Is that wr-wrong?_ ”

It...It _is_ wrong.

Prompto doesn’t recognize his own adopted parents.

He _should_.

His records...as a _baby_...he _should_.

But he doesn’t.

Rather he’s distressing over the fact that he _doesn’t_ , clued in that something’s wrong because his trusted caretaker isn’t talking. Small hands untuck themselves from against his torso, desperately reaching out for his older self’s phone to summon the image again.

“No, no, you’re not in any trouble, little one. I promise you aren’t.” The Advisor forces himself to speak, forces a smile upon lips determined to frown while setting the phone down to card the hand through disheveled blond. “You did a very great job. I only wished to know, and you did not. It’s quite alright.”

It is and it isn’t.

It is in that Prompto’s late parents hadn’t been the ones tormenting him from newborn to young adult.

It isn’t in that the records the Advisor had thoroughly investigated on a Prompto Argentum were clearly no more than a _forgery_.

A cover-up.

There’s not a single thing he can confirm about his history, everything he’d so confidently thought he’d known but dust in the wind like Insomnia’s smoldering shambles.

The only clue to his true identity the brand upon his wrist.

Noctis grumbles awake, drowsily muttering what’s going on.

Ignis doesn’t know.

But he does know who to ask.


	19. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noct talks about his past and realizes that Prompto doesn't have the one he thought he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! This month ended up keeping me a lot busier than I thought. Actually I'm gonna be pretty busy for a bit with other projects and the like, so I apologize for that in advance, too ;~;
> 
> Thank you so very much for your kindness, support, and understanding as always, and I hope you enjoy!!

 

 

 

Light footsteps tread softly in passing, piquing the Prince’s sluggish subconscious after an indeterminate time spent in a dreamless drugged stupor. There’s quiet rustling and then hushed murmuring following shortly after -- the ever-distinguishable accent easily placing the owner as his one-and-only Advisor speaking in a gentler tone than usual. A child’s hesitant voice stumbles over their words in response to whatever Ignis had spoken, the man replying after a moment as though in thought. Although far, far from being awake and much less having any semblance of bodily function, even Noct can tell that something is amiss.

A gods-awful voice slurs out of his parched throat as dry as the deserts in Leide, sharp and prickly in question of what’s going on. It takes more effort than he’s willing to admit to open his eyes, strength sapped as though stranded atop Mount Ravatogh’s volcanic peak with bare back sticky from dried sweat. Propping himself up by rigid elbows requires far more coordination than it ought to, half-lidded midnight blue landing on the pastel yellow of a particular chocobo plush that he’s certain he hadn’t passed out with. Prompto’s calling out his name before he can get his mouth to utter for the child-sized companion entering his blurred vision, the boy’s facial features the very definition of concern. The Prince tries to muster up a smile for him, tries to groggily push himself up further as not to worry the kid any more than he already has. Everything’s just so stiff and sore that he can’t quite yet, given the gentle yet firm reminder to take it slow as advised by Ignis’s careful hand upon his shoulder.

The Advisor makes inquiries right away on how he’s feeling in a tone that demands his complete honesty despite the child in their company, moving on to ask if his back still ails him. Managing to shake his head despite better judgement, Noct grimaces at the wave of nausea washing over him. Waking up after sleeping through a dose of potent medication has left him with a handful of side-effects as per usual, but he’ll gladly deal with them in exchange for ridding himself of debilitating back pain.

Even if it feels like the world’s worst hangover.

He tries asking again if everything’s alright -- speech still not up to par --, and the hand on his shoulder clenches briefly before quickly relinquishing. The question goes unanswered, topic changed to caregiver asking if he thinks he can sit up in order to have lunch. While he’d travel all across Eos barefoot to have something to fill his painfully empty stomach, he’s reminded of a similar conversation that has his eyebrows narrow, focusing blurred vision on Ignis as he attempts once more to ask just that. According to the Advisor, Prompto has eaten and while that’s always a good thing, isn’t what he’d meant and the man knows it. Though informed he did have breakfast after all, it doesn’t satisfy Noct entirely at hesitant admittance that he’s yet to partake in lunch.

He plans to once the Prince has had his first, and after placing a phone call that leaves an air of intrigue that’s more of a gust of wind. Getting the impression he’s missed out on crucial information and more, Noct hasn’t the chance to inquire before Ignis diverts his attention to magic’d ally acting as though...not as though anything crucial has occurred, save for his foolish self once again causing the poor kid minor distress. Ignis gives him the option to stay here or to assist him with providing their friend his lunch. Prompto shyly looks his way, biting his lip without saying a word as the caregiver understands in the way that he always does. It’s true that Noct will enjoy his company, but it’s the next option that offers him another piece of the puzzle his sluggish mind is slowly collecting.

The question is if Prompto wishes to share his drawing with him, or not.

By the way Ignis’s neutral expression softens when Noct echos the keyword with a quiet voice and raised brow, he takes it that it must be something nice as a trace of a smile graces his own lips. There’s still something not quite right with how guarded the Advisor has been acting in the first place, but he trusts Ignis to divulge with what he’s apparently learned at a later time after that...phone call. In any case, the boy timidly nods and so his smile grows a bit stronger as Ignis takes his temporary leave.

It’s just him and Prompto now, just like before.

And the silence, just like before.

Surprisingly, the child is the first to break it, biting his lip while looking at him but not _at_ him. Noct doesn’t need to look to know those worried little orbs are locked on the Marilith’s scar slashed down along his spine.

“ _I-I’m sorry I...I made it hurt."_

He swallows like there’s shards of glass lodged in his throat, envisions the dozens of scars from Six-knows-who that’re all over the kid’s too-scrawny body that must’ve hurt like hell -- a hell he’d suffered in every day without reprieve, without anyone caring at all about him. Noct opens his mouth, uncertain of where to even begin to explain to him that he couldn’t be more wrong, that Prompto makes him _not_ hurt.

All that comes out is coughing, each sharp exhale like a pickaxe to his head.

Water.

He needs water.

Blindly pointing in the canteen’s direction, his elbow support gives out beneath him as his face falls on Leo’s feathered head. While breathlessly wheezing into the plush, cool metal is soon pressed against the back of one of his hands. Noct thinks he says he’s gotta twist the lid off between dry heaving, thinks he must have because water droplets spill onto fingers too stiff to do it for himself. The container is pushed into his left hand by much smaller ones and it’s all he can do to firmly plant his right palm on the floor, lifting his head up enough to choke down water that feels like a blessing from the Astrals above as it trickles down his throat like rain on cracked earth.

It takes his body a minute to remember just how drinking works, spluttering up the first mouthful before greedily taking another swig.

Noct drinks and drinks until his thirst is quenched, until his body is reminded that breathing is a necessity as well and he takes a breath that’s as simple as, well, breathing.

Next he collapses back down on his stomach and just lays like that for a moment with the plush uncomfortably trapped beneath him, debating whether to give into the temptation to sleep, hunger pains be damned.

“ _N-Noct...?”_ Prompto’s little voice wobbles above him and he turns his head to the side, blinking away loose tears at how distressed the small blond looks. “ _Are you...b-better...?”_

He begins to nod, but then thinks better of it.

“So much better all thanks to you.” Noct speaks from the heart thudding against rattled ribcage aching from the coughing fit, wincing slightly while propping himself back up on elbows, a feat easier performed this time around. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“ _It doesn’t h-hurt?”_ The child repeats anxiously and Noct nods although he doesn’t appear all that convinced.

Why should he when he’s been...been...all over...

Noct bites his lip. Breathes through his nose.

Remembers what Gladio told him.

“Not...Not all the time.” Lamenting softly, he manages to sit up albeit hunched over without the wall’s support, making it a point to hold Leo on his lap. He could easily lean back into the flimsy canvas, but chooses not to because he wants Prompto to see. To feel. “It’s...It’s okay now. You can...can touch it, if you want. You won’t hurt me, I promise.”

The little blond pauses a moment before shuffling closer. The Prince doesn’t see him, but feels a tiny nail-bitten fingertip at the very top.

 _“It was a Marilith._ ” Noct murmurs quietly though the boy’s close enough to hear him. _“We were on the road when it appeared. My caretaker, she-she tried to protect me. I would’ve died right then if she hadn’t...hadn’t..."_

Prompto stops through the middle of the severe slash that’d nearly severed his spine, a result of the same attack that’d claimed the life of the woman mere inches from him. She could’ve abandoned him, could’ve forsaken her duties and increased her impossible odds of survival by leaving him behind. But she hadn’t, just like how he hadn’t abandoned Prompto to the Red Giant. It may have been devotion to the Crown which led her to do what she did, or out of a sense of motherly love towards the young Prince whom had no mother in which to love him, intent on protecting the child in spite of peril. Of course, it may not have even been anything at all, no time given to think in those adrenaline-fueled moments before the Marilith had lunged towards them with blades poised. Even so, he likes to think her sacrifice out of love despite the reality of her acting as the Kingdom’s last line of defense as all other Crownsguard had perished, the life of a pleb insignificant to Lucis’ sole heir. It’s a notion Noct refuses to practice with how important Prompto is to him, refuses to believe his best friend’s life is worthless due only to royal birthright.

The boy resumes tracing down his spine with great care, and so he continues.

Whatever her true reasons were, he’d survived the Marilith’s attack, having opened his eyes to find himself collapsed in a pool of both their blood with body paralyzed from the shock. The daemonic serpent had glowered over him with a glare that’d pierced his very soul, certain he’d meet his demise by the same blades that’d executed his caretaker, her sacrifice amounting to but a few precious seconds of life. Regis and his men had then arrived at the grisly scene, Armiger shining brilliantly in the dark night lit by turquoise Royal Arms and the burning fuel of decimated cars. It’s a memory revisited in nightmares that end differently each time, outcomes so horrifyingly heartwrenching that he’d be inconsolable without his Father at his bedside, clutching his young son as tightly as he would in return.

Years later he’d moved out in an apartment on his own, relative independence both a blessing and a curse as the haunting nightmares had followed and without Regis to save him. It seems like a lifetime ago now when he’d tearfully confessed the horrifying event after a particularly gruesome night terror rendered him breathless and afraid, recanting the childhood tale while in the safety of his first and only best friend’s arms. He’d not even told Shield and Advisor of that fateful night, and yet with Prompto, the words had come naturally -- even as he’d pause and shudder, soothed by the blond’s reassuring whispers that he had him, that Noct was safe.

It would be okay.

It’s funny now, in that melancholy way, recollecting just how uncharacteristically somber Prompto had sounded when murmuring advice he’d never forgotten, never realized he’d been speaking of himself, too.

“ _There’ll be a day where your scars will stop hurting_. _Not right now, maybe not tomorrow, or even years from now. Healing takes time, on good days and bad days, both. What matters is you don’t give up, and one day those scars, that’s all they’ll ever be. They’ll stop hurting.”_

Noct had teased him then, asking what video game he’d been quoting as his strangely serious expression had shifted into a typical pout, dramatically complaining that it _wasn’t_ from an inspirational game or one of Gladio’s cheesy romance novels, thank you very much.

It’d been from his adoptive mother.

The mother whom presumably along with his adoptive father, were responsible for his current state that had resulted in Prompto’s clearly twisted love for them, mourning their loss over those two silence-filled days after Insomnia’s fall. He’d pick at his food without eating,  barely sleep through the night if at all, and on more than one occasion had they all caught him staring at his phone. Tearfully swiping through the photo gallery of the family of three. Prompto had then selected an image of the couple as the lock screen, periodically checking in every now and again. Looking back now, Noct should’ve done more. They _all_ should have, but they’d been trapped in their own worlds, trying to process the devastating loss of home and family. They still are, not even a month later.

Prompto’s small palm rests tentatively at the scar’s base just above his waistline.

“I-I know it’s different, but. But there’ll be a day where your scars won’t...won’t hurt you, either.” Noct wipes beneath his eyes with the back of a hand, ignoring the pain in favor of trying to keep composure. It’s hard when all he wants to do is turn around and hug Prompto -- his past, present, future--, all of him at once. “Not now, or tomorrow, or even...even years from now. It’s gonna be good and bad, but you, you’ll--I, I-I’ll be ever at your side through it all, Prom, so don’t...don’t give up.”

Scrawny arms encircle his back as best they’re able, joined by a little face pressing against scarred skin in effort to embrace the Prince as close as humanly possible. Noct knows it isn’t dried sweat that’s trickling down his spine, can tell that by the tiniest of sniffles puffing hot air on chilled skin. He means to clutch Prompto closely in exchange, only to glance down at the chocobo plush occupying where the boy ought to be. It’s unlike the two to be separated, and he has a pretty good idea of why, if their child-sized companion’s selflessness and guilt over his condition are anything to go by.

“Hey, buddy?” He can feel the kid’s head tilt back, whole body tensing as though readying to launch himself away should Noct give the word just like with breakfast. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. Leo was just saying that he’s all done making me feel better.”

_“He...He did?”_

“Mhm. He says he’s missing you a whole bunch, too.”

“ _Leo does?”_ It’s clear he hadn’t been expecting that, soft little voice a fusion of wonder and disbelief.

“Of course, Prom. You’re important to him, just like you are to me.” Noct doesn’t catch what Prompto mumbles as his head butts against his back, taking it as an adorable way of shyly hiding his face although out of the Prince’s sight. “Leo says he’s ready to go back to you when you are.”

It takes no time at all for those little arms to unwind from his sides, the child crawling back over to sit in front of him. Even at being informed of the stuffed animal’s thoughts and desire, he’s hesitant to reach out for it. A moment of gentle reassuring passes before Prompto timidly takes the plush from his near-robotic movements. The look on his face is worth more than every treasure on Eos, more than life itself as the kid squeezes Leo tightly. Noct lightly ruffles his hair, and there’s that teeny tiny sunshine smile. This rare side of Prompto just so precious, acting like a kid his age _should_. Although Noct doesn’t know the number, he does know he’s too godsdamned small and that there’s one scar too many on the scrawny scrap of a child.

‘ _Just who were your parents?’_

It’s best not to ask, yet the burning question is there on his tongue like a hot coal. It’d be easy to figure it all out by just asking, but the kid’s so...so happy, and as oblivious as Noct knows himself to be in regards to social cues, this definitely isn’t the time. So instead he asks what his aforementioned drawing is of, casually reaching for his canteen with relatively renewed strength. His gil is on something Leo-related, fondly recollecting how quickly Prompto’s camera had filled up the first time they’d stopped by at Wiz’s Chocobo Post.

“ _My parents_.”

Noct chokes on his water as Ignis enters the tent, Advisor quickly setting the tray down before kneeling next to him with a firm palm cautiously patting his trembling back. Spluttering, he manages to shake his head that he’s fine while sloppily wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, willing the coughing fit to subside before he’s worried both companions more than they already are. Aside from wearing himself out in the five minutes he’s been awake, Noct’s fine enough. Whether or not his Advisor believes him, the man backs away to place the tray of lunch before him -- a stew of sorts that’s chock-full of vegetables.

On second thought, maybe he isn’t so fine, after all.

“Prom said he drew his parents.” The inflection of his voice is inquisitive, a simple statement that holds a serious weight as Ignis visibly pauses before pressing his glasses up his nose, the child in question nodding innocently in confirmation with Leo on his lap.

“Indeed,” Ignis says carefully after a moment, directing his attention to the boy while gesturing towards the notebook left on the tray. “Would you like to show Noct your drawing now, little one?”

The kid nods again, and so the caretaker hands the booklet over to him, little fingers paging through lists of recipes to the near back of the journal. Though given an idea of what to expect but not the content, the tension is killing him as Prompto finds the section and holds it out for him to see.

What he sees is a tall figure with spiked hair and glasses.

What he sees is shorter figure next to the taller one with very wild strokes filled in for dark hair.

“That’s-”

“I had requested Prompto to draw those who look after and care for him, as parents do.” Ignis explains as the boy wordlessly nods along and quietly he adds. “ _To him, we are.”_

“But that’s not-” Noct is flattered, truly he is that Prompto thinks of them in that regard for such a short time period, but that’s _not_ \--

Ignis clears his throat louder than necessary, rises to his feet with none of his quiet grace while stepping over to the blond’s bags and kneeling briefly to retrieve a device he recognizes easily as his phone with chocobo case and all. The screen lights up with a press of a button, displaying the couple for Noct to see and the Advisor asks if he recognizes either of them.

“Yeah, those are Prom’s-” Ignis makes a low noise and so he hastily rethinks his statement before the oblivious child catches on. “Those’re the, ah, Argentums. I don’t remember their names, but that’s them.”

There must be more to it because the Advisor looks as inquisitive as ever. The memories are hazy back in his high school days, recollecting staying the rare night over at the Argentums’ apartment. There’d been at least one time when he’d met a guardian to which Prompto had happily introduced him to as his first best friend, and they’d seemed happy in return, nothing out of the ordinary. Truth be told he’d seen more of them in pictures than he had in actual person, of a young Prompto probably no older than ten with both adoptive parents at his side. Which thinking about it now, _is_ out of the ordinary for a couple that’s supposed to have had him since he was a baby. Six knows how many photographs there were of him as an infant, and how many Gladio still keeps on him of Iris.

For a couple wanting a baby and having their wish come true via adoption, there should’ve been at least a hundred photos of that baby plastered all over the walls.

Ignis shows the child the picture before Noct can even ask and Prompto shakes his head, worriedly chewing his lip as the caregiver reassures that it’s still alright that he doesn’t know.

That he doesn’t...doesn’t know his own parents.

“ _Shit.”_ Noct curses aloud before he can stop himself, Ignis shooting a warning glare from over his shoulder while procuring his own phone from his pocket. “What does this mean?”

It’s a rhetorical question with answers they don’t have, but Noct has a feeling Ignis knows where to get some, departing from the tent with the emergency contact already selected.

The last he hears is his voice before going out of range.

“Marshal, I must speak with you immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES IT'S COR


	20. A Call To The Marshal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignis learns that all his past research of Prompto’s history was for naught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back and currently free from all projects, which means more time for writing! Yay! Thank you all for your comments over this little hiatus -- your love and support means so much! We're on chapter 20 and coincidentally there's almost 20k hits. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA that's still so incredible ;~; 
> 
> Thank you again for reading and I hope you enjoy <3

 

 

 

Noctis is awake.

For once his Prince is all for rising right away instead of taking it slow, struggling against the lingering effects of medication that hold him in a lethargic state with a ravenous appetite. He wishes to know what’s going on and quite frankly, so would Ignis. With an anxious and worried Prompto in their present company, that particular conversation is put on hold as the caregiver shifts the subject to lunch. Eating his own must have slipped his mind while ensuring the child had his, reprimanded by Noct’s sharp frown that reads a dozen shades of concern. It’s touching how deeply he cares for him not as an Advisor, but as a cherished friend that has unintentionally skipped a meal once again. He’ll eat after the Prince has been tended to and intel gathered from the only source he can think of. It isn’t as though they can traverse to Insomnia and peruse records and documentation at their leisure, such information likely lost in the chaotic desecration of their home. It pains Ignis to be aware of that, and of the grand library he’d spent many a day in, a vast expanse of knowledge executed by the ugliness of war. It’ll be a miracle of the Six if this individual retains any details on a Prompto Argentum’s personal record -- one that isn’t an abridged rendition.

The sooner Noct is fed, and the sooner the call can be placed.

Prompto, bless his precious soul, chooses to stay with his ailing best friend instead of assisting Ignis as he’d earlier promised, shyly nodding that he’d like to share his drawing as well. The drawing of his ‘parents’, the two individuals that look after and care for him. Accurate it may not be, the technicality does bring warmth to Ignis’s heart which holds no doubt for Noct to feel the same.

Departing from the tent as though on a mission towards the camp’s kitchen, he hurriedly fills a bowl with Gladio’s stew, absentmindedly wondering if his Highness is so hungry as to forgo his great detest of vegetable kind. How fortunate they are for the young Prompto to be in their presence if but to leave Noct no other option than to eat accursed veggies -- that is, presuming he won’t pawn them off for the boy to consume in his stead as a win-win situation. The Advisor had eaten more than his fair share when they were children, after all.

Upon approaching the tent with tray in hand along with his notebook, Ignis arrives just in time to witness his Prince in the midst of a coughing fit and hastily sets it aside to come to his aid. Cautious as always around Noct’s scar, he firmly pats his back while urgently asking if he’s alright. All the man receives in response is a shake of his head followed by a sloppy swipe across chapped lips, physical actions a good sign compared to his earlier immobile state. At the very least he ought to be able to feed himself as Ignis maneuvers the tray before him, well-aware of the medicine’s side-effect resulting in a famished state guaranteed to force the user into inhaling all in sight or make a mess trying. Noct’s capable of speech now as well, giving a question of a statement of what Prompto’s stated to have drawn, taking the Advisor by surprise as the weight of the reveal is still a new and heavy one. Pressing his glasses upwards, he catches the child nodding his head with the chocobo plush on his lap, repeating the gesture when asked if he’d like to show Noct his drawing now.

The tension the Prince holds is reminiscent of his own while awaiting to be shown the boy’s doodled perception of his ‘parents’, observing as his dark expression lightens with bewildered confusion at viewing both Advisor and himself, obviously not at all what he’d been expecting just as Ignis had. Even at explaining the request resulting in their portraits, Noct retains disbelief despite being touched at Prompto’s interpretation of their roles as his caregivers. He even goes so far as to voice truthful denial before interrupted by Ignis strategically clearing his throat as a reminder of their oblivious company that would be in all their best interests to remain as such. The child trusts them enough to believe them to be his ‘parents’ by definition of those who look after and care for him, and he isn’t _entirely_ incorrect. On more than one occasion has it been made abundantly clear that they do indeed fit the description, and if that’s what the traumatized young child has concluded, then so be it. As far as Ignis is concerned, he’d already signed the metaphorical adoption papers the very moment the severity of Prompto’s situation had reared its cruel, ugly head.

Lingering on that particular train of thought, Ignis retrieves the blond’s cellphone. There’s still something he must make certain of, if it was true to begin with.

“Do you recognize either of them?”

Unlike with their allegedly adopted son, Noctis _does_ , easily placing their identities as the Argentums despite being unable to recollect their first names. He thinks hard on it as his Advisor says nothing more, displaying the screen for Prompto to view the couple once again before Noct asks. As with the first time there’s not so much as a flicker of recognition as the boy anxiously chews at his bottom lip, Ignis quickly setting the device aside in favor of ample reassurance that it’s alright he doesn’t know. For having no knowledge of the pair subtly confirmed as his adoptive parents, they’ve begun to cause him distress over the plain fact that he doesn’t know them. Doesn’t know that he’s Prompto _Argentum_ , their adopted son they’ve supposedly had custody of since he was a newborn infant smuggled out of Niflheim.

“ _Shit._ ” Noct’s come to the same conclusion that not all was what it’d seemed, earning a wordless glare to watch his foul language around the child that’s very likely heard it all. “What does this mean?”

It means that the official records on ‘ _Prompto Argentum’_ were so cleverly falsified that the Advisor hadn’t took notice during his thorough research into his Prince’s first friend, nor had it raised any red flags during his background check for Crownsguard where not even a pebble of information was left unturned. The only person with access to such sensitive, secretive military material was the very same in charge of training recruits and an individual known for being ‘Immortal’, having persevered in countless battles throughout the decades as well as one of the very few to survive Insomnia’s demise.

If anyone is able to shed light after finding themselves left in the dark, it would be _him._

Ignis selects the emergency contact, departing from the tent with cellular device pressed against his ear and ringing only once before a familiar voice answers.

“ _Leonis.”_

“Marshal, I must speak with you immediately.” Ignis is straight to the point with not the time nor patience for pleasantries, taking great strides away from the tent and towards the camp’s kitchen. Though he’d left rather abruptly, he trusts the Prince to eat his lunch and keep Prompto occupied while on the insatiable quest for any intel he can pry from the man.

“ _Noctis?_ ” Fortunately Cor is of the same mind, sensing the urgency in his tone. Not only must it be an emergency for him to have been called in the first place, but a grave one at that for the Advisor to personally ring him up.

“No, this is in regards to Prompto. What do you recall of his personal records?”

There’s a slight pause at the unorthodox request, no doubt an unexpected question compared to a logical inquiry about the whereabouts of a Royal Tomb or imploring the swordsman’s expertise in infiltrating an Imperial base.

_“He’s the Prince’s friend. You’d know more about the kid than I.”_

“Yes, well, I believed I did up until yesterday.” Ignis snorts in a way both humorous and dripping with irritation. “Now, his records. You personally trained him and therefore had access to his information, correct?”

“ _Correct_.” There’s another brief pause that could read a million different ways from the stern, stone-faced Marshal with piercing blue eyes the Advisor can envision staring him down like a lion, both dignified yet dangerous. _“I’ll take it that something has happened to Prompto. Are you in need of me?”_

“He’s been afflicted by time magic, so unless you’re familiar with childcare I’m afraid we’ll not be needing your aid.”

 _“Just the one time.”_ There’s a hint of softness, sadness, so uncharacteristic of the stoic man that Ignis is certain he’d imagined it. There’s very little he knows of Cor outside of his grand accomplishments on the battlefield and working at the Citadel, but he’s fairly certain there’s no immediate family in which to draw his ‘one time’ from -- perhaps he had stepped in to aid Clarus in sparring with young Gladio, or perhaps babysit a toddler Iris. Regardless, it isn’t useful for the matter at hand and therefore unimportant. “ _How is he?_ ”

“Well, that would bring us back to the purpose of this call. Were you aware, Marshal, that he’d been abused as a child? Physically, mentally, emotionally? That he doesn’t recognize a photograph of his own guardians that he ought to at his age?” His voice shakes with each recollection, free hand trembling on his glasses though none can see his valiant effort to keep from crying out over the cruelty of it all. The Advisor swallows hard, noting after a beat that Cor is quiet for too long a time.

Ignis doesn’t know what to make of the silence except that it angers him.

“Sir, I hold you with the highest respect and regard, but if I uncover that you are withholding information from me, I have no qualms in testing your immortality.”

A second beat of verbal silence passes, filled with the sounds of fabric rustling.

“ _Any and all documentation was destroyed when Insomnia...fell._ ” A small flicker of guilt worms its way to Ignis’s heart. He had presumed as much, but hadn’t intended on requesting the Marshal to relive witnessing their homeland fall to ashes. The headlines had made him sick to his stomach with unbearable anguish, and Astrals forbid what it must have been like to experience it all firsthand. “ _But to answer your polite threat, yes. There were two records on Argentum_.”

That flicker is extinguished by indignation consuming him once more, hand forming into a fist so tight he can feel clipped nails bite into skin.

“And you lot saw fit to hide this from _me_ , the _Prince’s Advisor_. I would presume that his late Majesty was aware as well, else have an unknown school-age citizen befriend the kingdom’s sole heir?” What a perfect way that would’ve been to end the Royal bloodline right then and there, no worse betrayal than that of a beloved best friend and right under Ignis’s nose. Though Prompto was far too kind and humble to be that of a double agent, there’s absolutely no excuse for such crucial information to be hidden from _him_ of all Royal retainers. It’s an outrage, it’s inexcusable, it’s _infuriating --_

_“It was for the kid’s protection.”_

Now Ignis is quiet, the rage in his heart melting into the melancholy stowed deep within his aching soul.

“Marshal, you and I both know Prompto. His character is kindhearted, loyal, honest, and he is a treasured friend towards us all. I...I can understand the secrecy of his past and wishing to bury it, yet. Yet if there is anything you can divulge to assist in our efforts to heal, I would be most appreciative.”

“ _He_ is _a good kid._ ” Cor surmises in spite of Prompto’s traumatic past and the Advisor wonders just how much he truly knows of him given how awed the gunner had been of his mentor, always so eager to impress and prove his worth as a Crownsguard recruit. _“I’ll...see what I can remember. How has Prompto been holding up?_ ”

“It’s...” Ignis catches himself, heaving a great sigh while firmly pressing his glasses up his nose and holding the hand there. “I’d be lying to report it hasn’t been difficult, witnessing the aftermath of severe abuse and neglect of...of Prompto. He’s incredibly anxious, easily frightened, and starved of both nourishment and affection.”

He takes a deep breath and another for good measure, cautiously stepping towards the tent’s entrance. Peering inside to check on the two, he spies Prompto sitting on Noct’s lap, hugging Leo in his arms while watching the Prince draw with the sweetest of rare smiles. If he’s right on his guess, the poorly scribbled squiggle is meant to be stuffed animal the boy holds so dear to his fragile little heart. Entranced, Ignis observes for a moment longer before remembering the phone in his hand. He quietly steps away, burning the image in his memory that holds far too many of that same child crying and panicked out of his mind.

“Yet even so, he still contains precious innocence. There is a chocobo plush he’s held onto since...since back then, and it has helped a great deal. Whomever gifted it to him, they have my immense gratitude.”

There is a prolonged silence that for a minute Ignis wonders if he’d hung up.

“ _That is...a relief to hear._ ” Another pause. “ _The Hunters have returned. I’ll report back with any worthwhile findings about...about the boy. Prompto._ ”

“Thank you, Marshal.” Threats aside, Ignis truly means it.

“ _Take care of yourself, Scientia.”_ The Marshal advises in that soft, gentle tone he’d earlier thought a trick of the imagination. His distressed state over the child’s condition must have been made clear enough by emotion in his voice, a far cry from his calm and composed manner of speech.

“I will. Thank you again, sir.” The very last he needs is for Cor the Immortal to be worried about the Prince’s Advisor inept at performing his duties. “I look forward to speaking with you in the future.”

“ _Likewise.”_

Call ended, Ignis heaves yet another sigh whilst scrolling to Gladio’s message log.

‘ _I spoke with the Marshal.’_

His phone vibrates with a response while reheating his previously abandoned bowl of stew, placing it upon the tray before checking the device.

‘ _He have anything to say?’_

‘ _Not much, I’m afraid.’_ Although he hadn’t garnered the substantial amount information he’d cautiously hoped for with now more questions in place of an answer, they have a start. ‘ _I’ll disclose what I’ve learned upon your return. Any luck we may have more in the near future.’_

_‘Sounds good. You eat yet?’_

Ignis cannot help the fond smile at the reminder, stomach rumbling over the meal smelling utterly delightful.

_‘I’m about to. Take care, Gladio.’_

_‘You, too, Igs.’_

Pocketing his phone in order to carry the weighted tray with both hands, he makes his way back to the tent. Peering inside, it appears Prompto has resumed drawing while Noctis observes over his petit shoulder, occasionally taking in a mouthful of stew with a disgusted wince at a revolting cooked carrot. His Prince is the first to notice his muted entrance, murmuring quietly into the boy’s ear as those violet gems snap up at attention. Though the child doesn’t speak, his body language reads volumes of how relieved he is at the favored caregiver’s return. His eyes are livilier, posture more relaxed, and that sweet, barely-there trace of a smile is present and growing just a tad brighter as Ignis takes the free space next to him.

“Did you miss me, dove?” Ignis hums while lightly tousling wild blond locks. The boy nods beneath his palm, pressing into his torso as if to absorb every bit of the physical contact he’d missed out on during his departure with tiny fists grasping onto his shirt. “Don’t fret, little one. I’m here to stay.”

“ _St-Stay?”_ A small, muffled voice echoes from his ribcage, hopeful hands clutching the fabric close in a silent plea for it to be so.

“Yes, ‘stay.’” The Advisor reaffirms the single word meaning more than the entire world to child-sized companion. “I see you drew while I was away. Did Noct draw with you?”

The blond nods, little face peeking into view to look over at Noctis. His Prince’s expression is as tender as the gesture of reaching out to retrieve treasured stuffed animal for the boy to hold in place of Ignis’s garments, moving the hand up to card through his hair.

“Hey buddy, is it okay to let Ignis see my drawing?” He waits for his best friend’s meek approval of nodding his head once more, smiling softly at permission granted while pulling the notebook within his reach. “You wanna show him?”

Little fingers stretch forward, flipping from the page he’d been previously doodling on to the next. As predicted, it’s the sketch of the chocobo plush with the artist’s name penned beneath.

" _S'Leo."_ Prompto motions between plush and paper. " _Noct drawed him."_

"I see. That was very nice of Noct, wasn't it?" The child sheepishly hugs the toy close with a mumble he doesn't quite catch but presumes agreement as he hides his face behind faded yellow. "If you’d like, I’d be more than happy to draw with you once I’ve eaten my lunch.”

Widened violet rises over tattered fleece feathers followed by the boy’s mouth partially agape at the surprising suggestion. There’s a few noticeable gummy gaps that while a natural occurrence in growing children, leads the caretaker to believe in actions far more violent than a loose baby tooth tied to a doorknob. As quickly as the wondrous expression had appeared, it’s shut down by self-inflicted discouragement gaze landing on Leo’s portrait, no doubt comparing it to his own work with mouth shut tight and bottom lip trapped between teeth.

“ _I can’t draw good.”_ Prompto shakes his head dejectedly, crestfallen by the lack of self-confidence present in his young adult years.

“What? No way, you’re the most talented guy I -” Noct argues, swiftly disrupted by a sharp cough. “I mean, uh. Look. Drawing isn’t something you’re good at right away. You’ve only just started, Prom, but you’re already really amazing at it. All you gotta do is practice and you’ll get even better, I know it.”

Prompto fidgets with the plush’s right wing, chewing on his lip as if to silence the intrusive thoughts Ignis can see warring within the tiny, conflicted soul wanting to believe his words more than anything.

“Noct is correct. In order to improve one’s skill, one must devote time and patience into practicing. Such as my ability to cook, for example. Through practiced repetition of the basics, I was able to move on to more complex recipes. Even at my age I still learn something new each day.” Ignis resumes the explanation in hopes that he won’t grow disheartened. To know of his artistic future brings both heartache in that he thinks so little of himself as result of his horrendous upbringing, yet also inspiration of how he’ll blossom with immeasurable talent. “I’m certain that you’ll be drawing circles around the both of us before you know it, little one.”

The boy sits and fidgets for a moment more before reaching for the pen, taking both their words to heart as he flips to a blank page before pausing to glance over his shoulder with hope in his eyes. The Advisor offers a soft, encouraging smile in return, reminding him of the offer he intends to follow through once finished with his meal. There’s that teeny tiny smile he’s come to adore, vanishing from view as he places Leo into a favorable position like an artist with their muse.

Picking up his own spoon, Ignis manages a few bites of Gladio’s spiced up rendition ‘ _Dry-Aged Tender Roast Stew’_ before his pocket vibrates with a text notification from Noctis. Eyebrow raised towards the Prince sitting quite literally next to him save for the child between them, he’s met with uncharacteristically serious midnight.

_‘Tell me everything.’_

 


End file.
